The Valley of the Moon Jack London, Page 4

the other back toward his own table.

  Saxon was glowing. Here was a man, a protector, something to lean

  against, of whom even the Butchertown toughs were afraid as soon

  as his name was mentioned.

  CHAPTER IV

  After dinner there were two dances in the pavilion, and then the

  band led the way to the race track for the games. The dancers

  followed, and all through the grounds the picnic parties left

  their tables to join in. Five thousand packed the grassy slopes

  of the amphitheater and swarmed inside the race track. Here,

  first of the events, the men were lining up for a tug of war. The

  contest was between the Oakland Bricklayers and the San Francisco

  Bricklayers, and the picked braves, huge and heavy, were taking

  their positions along the rope. They kicked heel-holds in the

  soft earth, rubbed their hands with the soil from underfoot, and

  laughed and joked with the crowd that surged about them.

  The judges and watchers struggled vainly to keep back this crowd

  of relatives and friends. The Celtic blood was up, and the Celtic

  faction spirit ran high. The air was filled with cries of cheer,

  advice, warning, and threat. Many elected to leave the side of

  their own team and go to the side of the other team with the

  intention of circumventing foul play. There were as many women as

  men among the jostling supporters. The dust from the trampling,

  scuffling feet rose in the air, and Mary gasped and coughed and

  begged Bert to take her away. But he, the imp in him elated with

  the prospect of trouble, insisted on urging in closer. Saxon

  clung to Billy, who slowly and methodically elbowed and

  shouldered a way for her.

  "No place for a girl," he grumbled, looking down at her with a

  masked expression of absent-mindedness, while his elbow

  powerfully crushed on the ribs of a big Irishman who gave room.

  "Things'll break loose when they start pullin'. They's been too

  much drink, an' you know what the Micks are for a rough house."

  Saxon was very much out of place among these large-bodied men and

  women. She seemed very small and childlike, delicate and fragile,

  a creature from another race. Only Billy's skilled bulk and

  muscle saved her. He was continually glancing from face to face

  of the women and always returning to study her face, nor was she

  unaware of the contrast he was making.

  Some excitement occurred a score of feet away from them, and to

  the sound of exclamations and blows a surge ran through the

  crowd. A large man, wedged sidewise in the jam, was shoved

  against Saxon, crushing her closely against Billy, who reached

  across to the man's shoulder with a massive thrust that was not

  so slow as usual. An involuntary grunt came from the victim, who

  turned his head, showing sun-reddened blond skin and unmistakable

  angry Irish eyes.

  "What's eatin' yeh?" he snarled.

  "Get off your foot; you're standin' on it," was Billy's

  contemptuous reply, emphasized by an increase of thrust.

  The Irishman grunted again and made a frantic struggle to twist

  his body around, but the wedging bodies on either side held him

  in a vise.

  "I'll break yer ugly face for yeh in a minute," he announced in

  wrath-thick tones.

  Then his own face underwent transformation. The snarl left the

  lips, and the angry eyes grew genial.

  "An' sure an' it's yerself," he said. "I didn't know it was yeh

  a-shovin'. I seen yeh lick the Terrible Swede, if yeh WAS robbed

  on the decision."

  "No, you didn't, Bo," Billy answered pleasantly. "You saw me take

  a good beatin' that night. The decision was all right."

  The Irishman was now beaming. He had endeavored to pay a

  compliment with a lie, and the prompt repudiation of the lie

  served only to increase his hero-worship.

  "Sure, an' a bad beatin' it was," he acknowledged, "but yeh

  showed the grit of a bunch of wildcats. Soon as I can get me arm

  free I'm goin' to shake yeh by the hand an' help yeh aise yer

  young lady."

  Frustrated in the struggle to get the crowd back, the referee

  fired his revolver in the air, and the tug-of-war was on.

  Pandemonium broke loose. Saxon, protected by the two big men, was

  near enough to the front to see much that ensued. The men on the

  rope pulled and strained till their faces were red with effort

  and their joints crackled. The rope was new, and, as their hands

  slipped, their wives and daughters sprang in, scooping up the

  earth in double handfuls and pouring it on the rope and the hands

  of their men to give them better grip.

  A stout, middle-aged woman, carried beyond herself by the passion

  of the contest, seized the rope and pulled beside her husband,

  encouraged him with loud cries. A watcher from the opposing team

  dragged her screaming away and was dropped like a steer by an

  ear-blow from a partisan from the woman's team. He, in turn, went

  down, and brawny women joined with their men in the battle.

  Vainly the judges and watchers begged, pleaded, yelled, and swung

  with their fists. Men, as well as women, were springing in to the

  rope and pulling. No longer was it team against team, but all

  Oakland against all San Francisco, festooned with a free-for-all

  fight. Hands overlaid hands two and three deep in the struggle to

  grasp the rope. And hands that found no holds, doubled into

  bunches of knuckles that impacted on the jaws of the watchers who

  strove to tear hand-holds from the rope.

  Bert yelped with joy, while Mary clung to him, mad with fear.

  Close to the rope the fighters were going down and being

  trampled. The dust arose in clouds, while from beyond, all

  around, unable to get into the battle, could be heard the shrill

  and impotent rage-screams and rage-yells of women and men.

  "Dirty work, dirty work," Billy muttered over and over; and,

  though he saw much that occurred, assisted by the friendly

  Irishman he was coolly and safely working Saxon back out of the

  melee.

  At last the break came. The losing team, accompanied by its host

  of volunteers, was dragged in a rush over the ground and

  disappeared under the avalanche of battling forms of the

  onlookers.

  Leaving Saxon under the protection of the Irishman in an outer

  eddy of calm, Billy plunged back into the mix-up. Several minutes

  later he emerged with the missing couple--Bert bleeding from a

  blow on the ear, but hilarious, and Mary rumpled and hysterical.

  "This ain't sport," she kept repeating. "It's a shame, a dirty

  shame."

  "We got to get outa this," Billy said. "The fun's only

  commenced."

  "Aw, wait," Bert begged. "It's worth eight dollars. It's cheap at

  any price. I ain't seen so many black eyes and bloody noses in a

  month of Sundays."

  "Well, go on back an' enjoy yourself," Billy commended. "I'll

  take the girls up there on the side hill where we can look on.

  But I won't give much for your good looks if some of them Micks

  lands on you."

  The trouble was ov
er in an amazingly short time, for from the

  judges' stand beside the track the announcer was bellowing the

  start of the boys' foot-race; and Bert, disappointed, joined

  Billy and the two girls on the hillside looking down upon the

  track.

  There were boys' races and girls' races, races of young women and

  old women, of fat men and fat women, sack races and three-legged

  races, and the contestants strove around the small track through

  a Bedlam of cheering supporters. The tug-of-war was already

  forgotten, and good nature reigned again.

  Five young men toed the mark, crouching with fingertips to the

  ground and waiting the starter's revolver-shot. Three were in

  their stocking-feet, and the remaining two wore spiked

  running-shoes.

  "Young men's race," Bert read from the program. "An' only one

  prize--twenty-five dollars. See the red-head with the spikes--the

  one next to the outside. San Francisco's set on him winning. He's

  their crack, an' there's a lot of bets up."

  "Who's goin' to win?" Mary deferred to Billy's superior athletic

  knowledge.

  "How can I tell!" he answered. "I never saw any of 'em before.

  But they all look good to me. May the best one win, that's all."

  The revolver was fired, and the five runners were off and away.

  Three were outdistanced at the start. Redhead led, with a

  black-haired young man at his shoulder, and it was plain that the

  race lay between these two. Halfway around, the black-haired one

  took the lead in a spurt that was intended to last to the finish.

  Ten feet he gained, nor could Red-head cut it down an inch.

  "The boy's a streak," Billy commented. "He ain't tryin' his

  hardest, an' Red-head's just bustin' himself."

  Still ten feet in the lead, the black-haired one breasted the

  tape in a hubbub of cheers. Yet yells of disapproval could be

  distinguished. Bert hugged himself with joy.

  "Mm-mm," he gloated. "Ain't Frisco sore? Watch out for fireworks

  now. See! He's bein' challenged. The judges ain't payin' him the

  money. An' he's got a gang behind him. Oh! Oh! Oh! Ain't had so

  much fun since my old woman broke her leg!"

  "Why don't they pay him, Billy?" Saxon asked. "He won."

  "The Frisco bunch is challengin' him for a professional," Billy

  elucidated. "That's what they're all beefin' about. But it ain't

  right. They all ran for that money, so they're all professional."

  The crowd surged and argued and roared in front of the judges'

  stand. The stand was a rickety, two-story affair, the second

  story open at the front, and here the judges could be seen

  debating as heatedly as the crowd beneath them.

  "There she starts!" Bert cried. "Oh, you rough-house!"

  The black-haired racer, backed by a dozen supporters, was

  climbing the outside stairs to the judges.

  "The purse-holder's his friend," Billy said. "See, he's paid him,

  an' some of the judges is willin' an' some are beefin'. An' now

  that other gang's going up--they're Redhead's." He turned to

  Saxon with a reassuring smile. "We're well out of it this time.

  There's goin' to be rough stuff down there in a minute."

  "The judges are tryin' to make him give the money back," Bert

  explained. "An' if he don't the other gang'll take it away from

  him. See! They're reachin' for it now."

  High above his head, the winner held the roll of paper containing

  the twenty-five silver dollars. His gang, around him, was

  shouldering back those who tried to seize the money. No blows had

  been struck yet, but the struggle increased until the frail

  structure shook and swayed. From the crowd beneath the winner was

  variously addressed: "Give it back, you dog!" "Hang on to it,

  Tim!" "You won fair, Timmy!" "Give it back, you dirty robber!"

  Abuse unprintable as well as friendly advice was hurled at him.

  The struggle grew more violent. Tim's supporters strove to hold

  him off the floor so that his hand would still be above the

  grasping hands that shot up. Once, for an instant, his arm was

  jerked down. Again it went up. But evidently the paper had

  broken, and with a last desperate effort, before he went down,

  Tim flung the coin out in a silvery shower upon the heads of the

  crowd beneath. Then ensued a weary period of arguing and

  quarreling.

  "I wish they'd finish, so as we could get back to the dancin',"

  Mary complained. "This ain't no fun."

  Slowly and painfully the judges' stand was cleared, and an

  announcer, stepping to the front of the stand, spread his arms

  appealing for silence. The angry clamor died down.

  "The judges have decided," he shouted, "that this day of good

  fellowship an' brotherhood--"

  "Hear! Hear!" Many of the cooler heads applauded. "That's the

  stuff!" "No fightin'!" "No hard feelin's!"

  "An' therefore," the announcer became audible again, "the judges

  have decided to put up another purse of twenty-five dollars an'

  run the race over again!"

  "An' Tim?" bellowed scores of throats. "What about Tim?" "He's

  been robbed!" "The judges is rotten!"

  Again the announcer stilled the tumult with his arm appeal.

  "The judges have decided, for the sake of good feelin', that

  Timothy McManus will also run. If he wins, the money's his."

  "Now wouldn't that jar you?" Billy grumbled disgustedly. "If

  Tim's eligible now, he was eligible the first time. An' if he was

  eligible the first time, then the money was his."

  "Red-head'll bust himself wide open this time," Bert jubilated.

  "An' so will Tim," Billy rejoined. "You can bet he's mad clean

  through, and he'll let out the links he was holdin' in last

  time."

  Another quarter of an hour was spent in clearing the track of the

  excited crowd, and this time only Tim and Red-head toed the mark.

  The other three young men had abandoned the contest.

  The leap of Tim, at the report of the revolver, put him a clean

  yard in the lead.

  "I guess he's professional, all right, all right," Billy

  remarked. "An' just look at him go!"

  Half-way around, Tim led by fifty feet, and, running swiftly,

  maintaining the same lead, he came down the homestretch an easy

  winner. When directly beneath the group on the hillside, the

  incredible and unthinkable happened. Standing close to the inside

  edge of the track was a dapper young man with a light switch

  cane. He was distinctly out of place in such a gathering, for

  upon him was no ear-mark of the working class. Afterward, Bert

  was of the opinion that he looked like a swell dancing master,

  while Billy called him "the dude."

  So far as Timothy McManus was concerned, the dapper young man was

  destiny; for as Tim passed him, the young man, with utmost

  deliberation, thrust his cane between Tim's flying legs. Tim

  sailed through the air in a headlong pitch, struck spread-eagled

  on his face, and plowed along in a cloud of dust.

  There was an instant of vast and gasping silence. The young man,

  too, seemed petrified by the ghastliness of his deed. It took an

 
approciable interval of time for him, as well as for the

  onlookers, to realize what he had done. They recovered first, and

  from a thousand throats the wild Irish yell went up. Red-head won

  the race without a cheer. The storm center had shifted to the

  young man with the cane. After the yell, he had one moment of

  indecision; then he turned and darted up the track.

  "Go it, sport!" Bert cheered, waving his hat in the air. "You're

  the goods for me! Who'd a-thought it? Who'd a-thought it?

  Say!--wouldn't it, now? Just wouldn't it?"

  "Phew! He's a streak himself," Billy admired. "But what did he do

  it for? He's no bricklayer."

  Like a frightened rabbit, the mad roar at his heels, the young

  man tore up the track to an open space on the hillside, up which

  he clawed and disappeared among the trees. Behind him toiled a

  hundred vengeful runners.

  "It's too bad he's missing the rest of it," Billy said. "Look at

  'em goin' to it."

  Bert was beside himself. He leaped up and down and cried

  continuously.

  "Look at 'em! Look at 'em! Look at 'em!"

  The Oakland faction was outraged. Twice had its favorite runner

  been jobbed out of the race. This last was only another vile

  trick of the Frisco faction. So Oakland doubled its brawny fists

  and swung into San Francisco for blood. And San Francisco,

  consciously innocent, was no less willing to join issues. To be

  charged with such a crime was no less monstrous than the crime

  itself. Besides, for too many tedious hours had the Irish

  heroically suppressed themselves. Five thousands of them exploded

  into joyous battle. The women joined with them. The whole

  amphitheater was filled with the conflict. There were rallies,

  retreats, charges, and counter-charges. Weaker groups were forced

  fighting up the hillsides. Other groups, bested, fled among the

  trees to carry on guerrilla warfare, emerging in sudden dashes to

  overwhelm isolated enemies. Half a dozen special policemen, hired

  by the Weasel Park management, received an impartial trouncing

  from both sides.

  "Nobody's the friend of a policeman," Bert chortled, dabbing his

  handkerchief to his injured ear, which still bled.

  The bushes crackled behind him, and he sprang aside to let the

  locked forms of two men go by, rolling over and over down the

  hill, each striking when uppermost, and followed by a screaming

  woman who rained blows on the one who was patently not of her

  clan.

  The judges, in the second story of the stand, valiantly withstood

  a fierce assault until the frail structure toppled to the ground

  in splinters.

  "What's that woman doing?" Saxon asked, calling attention to an

  elderly woman beneath them on the track, who had sat down and was

  pulling from her foot an elastic-sided shoe of generous

  dimensions.

  "Goin' swimming," Bert chuckled, as the stocking followed.

  They watched, fascinated. The shoe was pulled on again over the

  bare foot. Then the woman slipped a rock the size of her fist

  into the stocking, and, brandishing this ancient and horrible

  weapon, lumbered into the nearest fray.

  "Oh!--Oh!--Oh!" Bert screamed, with every blow she struck "Hey,

  old flannel-mouth! Watch out! You'll get yours in a second. Oh!

  Oh! A peach! Did you see it? Hurray for the old lady! Look at her

  tearin' into 'em! Watch out, old girl! . . . Ah-h-h."

  His voice died away regretfully, as the one with the stocking,

  whose hair had been clutched from behind by another Amazon, was

  whirled about in a dizzy semicircle.

  Vainly Mary clung to his arm, shaking him back and forth and

  remonstrating.

  "Can't you be sensible?" she cried. "It's awful! I tell you it's

  awful!"

  But Bert was irrepressible.

  "Go it, old girl!" he encouraged. "You win! Me for you every

  time! Now's your chance! Swat! Oh! My! A peach! A peach!"