The Hairy Ape

more uneasily. Calm, now. Treat ’em wiv the proper contempt. Observe the bleedin’ parasites but ’old yer ’orses. Yank Angrily. Git away from me! Yuh’re yellow, dat’s what. Force, dat’s me! De punch, dat’s me every time, see! The crowd from church enter from the right, sauntering slowly and affectedly, their heads held stiffly up, looking neither to right nor left, talking in toneless, simpering voices. The women are rouged, calcimined, dyed, overdressed to the nth degree. The men are in Prince Alberts, high hats, spats, canes, etc. A procession of gaudy marionettes, yet with something of the relentless horror of Frankensteins in their detached, mechanical unawareness. Voices Dear Doctor Caiaphas! He is so sincere! What was the sermon? I dozed off. About the radicals, my dear⁠—and the false doctrines that are being preached. We must organize a hundred percent American bazaar. And let everyone contribute one one-hundredth percent of their income tax. What an original idea! We can devote the proceeds to rehabilitating the veil of the temple. But that has been done so many times. Yank Glaring from one to the other of them⁠—with an insulting snort of scorn. Huh! Huh! Without seeming to see him, they make wide detours to avoid the spot where he stands in the middle of the sidewalk. Long Frightenedly. Keep yer bloomin’ mouth shut, I tells yer. Yank Viciously. G’wan! Tell it to Sweeney! He swaggers away and deliberately lurches into a top-hatted gentleman, then glares at him pugnaciously. Say, who d’yuh tink yuh’re bumpin’? Tink yuh own de oith? Gentleman Coldly and affectedly. I beg your pardon. He has not looked at Yank and passes on without a glance, leaving him bewildered. Long Rushing up and grabbing Yank’s arm. ’Ere! Come away! This wasn’t what I meant. Yer’ll ’ave the bloody coppers down on us. Yank Savagely⁠—giving him a push that sends him sprawling. G’wan! Long Picks himself up⁠—hysterically. I’ll pop orf then. This ain’t what I meant. And whatever ’appens, yer can’t blame me. He slinks off left. Yank T’ hell wit youse! He approaches a lady⁠—with a vicious grin and a smirking wink. Hello, Kiddo. How’s every little ting? Got anyting on for tonight? I know an old boiler down to de docks we kin crawl into. The lady stalks by without a look, without a change of pace. Yank turns to others⁠—insultingly. Holy smokes, what a mug! Go hide yuhself before de horses shy at yuh. Gee, pipe de heinie on dat one! Say, youse, yuh look like de stoin of a ferryboat. Paint and powder! All dolled up to kill! Yuh look like stiffs laid out for de boneyard! Aw, g’wan, de lot of youse! Yuh give me de eye-ache. Yuh don’t belong, get me! Look at me, why don’t youse dare? I belong, dat’s me! Pointing to a skyscraper across the street which is in process of construction⁠—with bravado. See dat building goin’ up dere? See de steel work? Steel, dat’s me! Youse guys live on it and tink yuh’re somep’n. But I’m in it, see! I’m de hoistin’ engine dat makes it go up! I’m it⁠—de inside and bottom of it! Sure! I’m steel and steam and smoke and de rest of it! It moves⁠—speed⁠—twenty-five stories up⁠—and me at de top and bottom⁠—movin’! Youse simps don’t move. Yuh’re on’y dolls I winds up to see ’m spin. Yuh’re de garbage, get me⁠—de leavins⁠—de ashes we dump over de side! Now, whata yuh gotto say? But as they seem neither to see nor hear him, he flies into a fury. Bums! Pigs! Tarts! Bitches! He turns in a rage on the men, bumping viciously into them but not jarring them the least bit. Rather it is he who recoils after each collision. He keeps growling. Git off de oith! G’wan, yuh bum! Look where yuh’re goin,’ can’t yuh? Git outa here! Fight, why don’t yuh? Put up yer mits! Don’t be a dog! Fight or I’ll knock yuh dead! But, without seeming to see him, they all answer with mechanical affected politeness: I beg your pardon. Then at a cry from one of the women, they all scurry to the furrier’s window. The Woman Ecstatically, with a gasp of delight. Monkey fur! The whole crowd of men and women chorus after her in the same tone of affected delight. Monkey fur! Yank With a jerk of his head back on his shoulders, as if he had received a punch full in the face⁠—raging. I see yuh, all in white! I see yuh, yuh white-faced tart, yuh! Hairy ape, huh? I’ll hairy ape yuh! He bends down and grips at the street curbing as if to pluck it out and hurl it. Foiled in this, snarling with passion, he leaps to the lamppost on the corner and tries to pull it up for a club. Just at that moment a bus is heard rumbling up. A fat, high-hatted, spatted gentleman runs out from the side street. He calls out plaintively: “Bus! Bus! Stop there!” and runs full tilt into the bending, straining Yank, who is bowled off his balance. Yank Seeing a fight⁠—with a roar of joy as he springs to his feet. At last! Bus, huh? I’ll bust yuh! He lets drive a terrific swing, his fist landing full on the fat gentleman’s face. But the gentleman stands unmoved as if nothing had happened. Gentleman I beg your pardon. Then irritably. You have made me lose my bus. He claps his hands and begins to scream: Officer! Officer! Many police whistles shrill out on the instant and a whole platoon of policemen rush in on Yank from all sides. He tries to fight but is clubbed to the pavement and fallen upon. The crowd at the window have not moved or noticed this disturbance. The clanging gong of the patrol wagon approaches with