lissen here, Halley," she drawled, "I'm a woman. If you want him dressed, you can do it yourself. I don't put on but one man's clothes and he's in N'Orleans."
"Never mind all that. Git that stool pigeon sober!"
"I want order down there," Supercargo boomed, "and if there's white folks down there, I wan's double order."
Suddenly there was an angry roar from the men back near the bar and I saw them rush the stairs.
"Get him!"
"Let's give him some order!"
"Out of my way."
Five men charged the stairs. I saw the giant bend and clutch the posts at the top of the stairs with both hands, bracing himself, his body gleaming bare in his white shorts. The little man who had slapped Mr. Norton was in front, and, as he sprang up the long flight, I saw the attendant set himself and kick, catching the little man just as he reached the top, hard in the chest, sending him backwards in a curving dive into the midst of the men behind him. Supercargo got set to swing his leg again. It was a narrow stair and only one man could get up at a time. As fast as they rushed up, the giant kicked them back. He swung his leg, kicking them down like a fungo-hitter batting out flies. Watching him, I forgot Mr. Norton. The Golden Day was in an uproar. Half-dressed women appeared from the rooms off the balcony. Men hooted and yelled as at a football game.
"I WANT ORDER!" the giant shouted as he sent a man flying down the flight of stairs.
"THEY THROWING BOTTLES OF LIQUOR!" a woman screamed. "REAL LIQUOR!"
"That's a order he don't want," someone said.
A shower of bottles and glasses splashing whiskey crashed against the balcony. I saw Supercargo snap suddenly erect and grab his forehead, his face bathed in whiskey, "Eeeee!" he cried,
"Eeeee!" Then I saw him waver, rigid from his ankles upward. For a moment the men on the stairs were motionless, watching him. Then they sprang forward.
Supercargo grabbed wildly at the balustrade as they snatched his feet from beneath him and started down. His head bounced against the steps making a sound like a series of gunshots as they ran dragging him by his ankles, like volunteer firemen running with a hose. The crowd surged forward. Halley yelled near my ear. I saw the man being dragged toward the center of the room.
"Give the bastard some order!"
"Here I'm forty-five and he's been acting like he's my old man!"
"So you like to kick, huh?" a tall man said, aiming a shoe at the attendant's head. The flesh above his right eye jumped out as though it had been inflated.
Then I heard Mr. Norton beside me shouting, "No, no! Not when he's down!"
"Lissen at the white folks," someone said. "He's the white folks' man!" Men were jumping upon Supercargo with both feet now and I felt such an excitement that I wanted to join them. Even the girls were yelling, "Give it to him good!" "He never pays me!" "Kill him!"
"Please, y'all, not here! Not in my place!"
"You can't speak your mind when he's on duty!"
"Hell, no!"
Somehow I got pushed away from Mr. Norton and found myself beside the man called Sylvester.
"Watch this, school-boy," he said. "See there, where his ribs are bleeding?" I nodded my head.
"Now don't move your eyes."
I watched the spot as though compelled, just beneath the lower rib and above the hip-bone, as Sylvester measured carefully with his toe and kicked as though he were punting a football. Supercargo let out a groan like an injured horse.
"Try it, school-boy, it feels so good. It gives you relief," Sylvester said. "Sometimes I get so afraid of him I feel that he's inside my head. There!" he said, giving Supercargo another kick. As I watched, a man sprang on Supercargo's chest with both feet and he lost consciousness. They began throwing cold beer on him, reviving him, only to kick him unconscious again. Soon he was drenched in blood and beer.
"The bastard's out cold."
"Throw him out."
"Naw, wait a minute. Give me a hand somebody."
They threw him upon the bar, stretching him out with his arms
"Never mind all that. Git that stool pigeon sober!"
"I want order down there," Supercargo boomed, "and if there's white folks down there, I wan's double order."
Suddenly there was an angry roar from the men back near the bar and I saw them rush the stairs.
"Get him!"
"Let's give him some order!"
"Out of my way."
Five men charged the stairs. I saw the giant bend and clutch the posts at the top of the stairs with both hands, bracing himself, his body gleaming bare in his white shorts. The little man who had slapped Mr. Norton was in front, and, as he sprang up the long flight, I saw the attendant set himself and kick, catching the little man just as he reached the top, hard in the chest, sending him backwards in a curving dive into the midst of the men behind him. Supercargo got set to swing his leg again. It was a narrow stair and only one man could get up at a time. As fast as they rushed up, the giant kicked them back. He swung his leg, kicking them down like a fungo-hitter batting out flies. Watching him, I forgot Mr. Norton. The Golden Day was in an uproar. Half-dressed women appeared from the rooms off the balcony. Men hooted and yelled as at a football game.
"I WANT ORDER!" the giant shouted as he sent a man flying down the flight of stairs.
"THEY THROWING BOTTLES OF LIQUOR!" a woman screamed. "REAL LIQUOR!"
"That's a order he don't want," someone said.
A shower of bottles and glasses splashing whiskey crashed against the balcony. I saw Supercargo snap suddenly erect and grab his forehead, his face bathed in whiskey, "Eeeee!" he cried,
"Eeeee!" Then I saw him waver, rigid from his ankles upward. For a moment the men on the stairs were motionless, watching him. Then they sprang forward.
Supercargo grabbed wildly at the balustrade as they snatched his feet from beneath him and started down. His head bounced against the steps making a sound like a series of gunshots as they ran dragging him by his ankles, like volunteer firemen running with a hose. The crowd surged forward. Halley yelled near my ear. I saw the man being dragged toward the center of the room.
"Give the bastard some order!"
"Here I'm forty-five and he's been acting like he's my old man!"
"So you like to kick, huh?" a tall man said, aiming a shoe at the attendant's head. The flesh above his right eye jumped out as though it had been inflated.
Then I heard Mr. Norton beside me shouting, "No, no! Not when he's down!"
"Lissen at the white folks," someone said. "He's the white folks' man!" Men were jumping upon Supercargo with both feet now and I felt such an excitement that I wanted to join them. Even the girls were yelling, "Give it to him good!" "He never pays me!" "Kill him!"
"Please, y'all, not here! Not in my place!"
"You can't speak your mind when he's on duty!"
"Hell, no!"
Somehow I got pushed away from Mr. Norton and found myself beside the man called Sylvester.
"Watch this, school-boy," he said. "See there, where his ribs are bleeding?" I nodded my head.
"Now don't move your eyes."
I watched the spot as though compelled, just beneath the lower rib and above the hip-bone, as Sylvester measured carefully with his toe and kicked as though he were punting a football. Supercargo let out a groan like an injured horse.
"Try it, school-boy, it feels so good. It gives you relief," Sylvester said. "Sometimes I get so afraid of him I feel that he's inside my head. There!" he said, giving Supercargo another kick. As I watched, a man sprang on Supercargo's chest with both feet and he lost consciousness. They began throwing cold beer on him, reviving him, only to kick him unconscious again. Soon he was drenched in blood and beer.
"The bastard's out cold."
"Throw him out."
"Naw, wait a minute. Give me a hand somebody."
They threw him upon the bar, stretching him out with his arms
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