The Plastic Age by Percy Marks (e book reader pc .TXT) 📕

outside with his car,” Carl said excitedly, “and he’ll take us down. He’s got to come right back⁠—he’s only going for some booze⁠—but we needn’t come back if we don’t want to. We’ll have a drink and give Hastings the once-over. How’s to come along?”

“All right,” Hugh agreed indifferently and began to pull on his baa-baa coat. “I’m with you. A shot of gin might jazz me up a little.”

Once in Hastings, Pearson drove to a private residence at the edge of the town. The boys got out of the car and filed around to the back door, which was opened to their knock by a young man with a hatchet face and hard blue eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Pearson,” he said with an effort to be pleasant. “Want some gin?”

“Yes, and some Scotch, too, Pete⁠—if you have it. I’ll take two quarts of Scotch and one of gin.”

“All right.” Pete led the way down into the cellar, switching on an electric light when he reached the foot of the stairs. There was a small bar in the rear of the dingy, underground room, a table or two, and dozens of small boxes stacked against the wall.

It was Hugh’s first visit to a bootlegger’s den, and he was keenly interested. He had a highball along with Carl and Pearson; then took another when Carl offered to stand treat. Pearson bought his three quarts of liquor, paid Pete, and departed alone, Carl and Hugh having decided to have another drink or two before they returned to Haydensville. After a second highball Hugh did not care how many he drank and was rather peevish when Carl insisted that he stop with a third. Pete charged them eight dollars for their drinks, which they cheerfully paid, and then warily climbed the stairs and stumbled out into the cold winter air.

“Brr,” said Carl, buttoning his coat up to his chin; “it’s cold as hell.”

“So ’tis,” Hugh agreed; “so ’tis. So ’tis. That’s pretty. So ’tis, so ’tis, so ’tis. Isn’t that pretty, Carl?”

“Awful pretty. Say it again.”

“So ’tis. So ’tish. So⁠—so⁠—so. What wush it, Carl?”

“So ’tis.”

“Oh, yes. So ’tish.”

They walked slowly, arm in arm, toward the business section of Hastings, pausing now and then to laugh joyously over something that appealed to them as inordinately funny. Once it was a tree, another time a farmer in a sleigh, and a third time a Ford. Hugh insisted, after laughing until he wept, that the Ford was the “funniest goddamned thing” he’d ever seen. Carl agreed with him.

They were both pretty thoroughly drunk by the time they reached the center of the town, where they intended getting the bus back to Haydensville. Two girls passed them and smiled invitingly.

“Oh, what peaches,” Carl exclaimed.

“Jush⁠—jush⁠—Jush swell,” Hugh said with great positiveness, hanging on to Carl’s arm. “They’re the shwellest janes I’ve ever sheen.”

The girls, who were a few feet ahead, turned and smiled again.

“Let’s pick them up,” Carl whispered loudly.

“Shure,” and Hugh started unsteadily to increase his pace.

The girls were professional prostitutes who visited Hastings twice a year “to get the Sanford trade.” They were crude specimens, revealing their profession to the most casual observer. If Hugh had been sober they would have sickened him, but he wasn’t sober; he was joyously drunk and the girls looked very desirable.

“Hello, girls,” Carl said expansively, taking hold of one girl’s arm. “Busy?”

“Bish-bishy?” Hugh repeated valiantly.

The older “girl” smiled, revealing five gold teeth.

“Of course not,” she replied in a hard, flat voice. “Not too busy for you boys, anyway. Come along with us and we’ll make this a big afternoon.”

“Sure,” Carl agreed.

“Sh-shure,” Hugh stuttered. He reached forward to take the arm of the girl who had spoken, but at the same instant someone caught him by the wrist and held him still.

Harry Slade, the star football player and this year’s captain, happened to be in Hastings; he was, in fact, seeking these very girls. He had intended to pass on when he saw two men with them, but as soon as he recognized Hugh he paused and then impulsively strode forward.

“Here, Carver,” he said sharply. “What are you doing?”

“None⁠—none of you da-damn business,” Hugh replied angrily, trying to shake his wrist free. “Leggo of me or⁠—or I’ll⁠—I’ll⁠—”

“You won’t do anything,” Slade interrupted. “You’re going home with me.”

“Who in hell are you?” one of the girls asked viciously. “Mind your own damn business.”

“You mind yours, sister, or you’ll get into a peck of trouble. This kid’s going with me⁠—and don’t forget that. Come on, Carver.”

Hugh was still vainly trying to twist his wrist free and was muttering, “Leggo, leggo o’ me.”

Slade jerked him across the sidewalk. Carl followed expostulating. “Get the hell out of here, Peters,” Slade said angrily, “or I’ll knock your fool block off. You chase off with those rats if you want to, but you leave Carver with me if you know what’s good for you.” He shoved Carl away, and Carl was sober enough to know that Slade meant what he said. Each girl took him by an arm, and he walked off down the street between them, almost instantly forgetting Hugh.

Fortunately the street was nearly deserted, and no one had witnessed the little drama. Hugh began to sob drunkenly. Slade grasped his shoulders and shook him until his head waggled. “Now, shut up!” Slade commanded sharply. He took Hugh by the arm and started down the street with him, Hugh still muttering, “Leggo, leggo o’ me.”

Slade walked him the whole five miles back to Haydensville, and before they were half way home Hugh’s head began to clear. For a time he felt a little sick, but the nausea passed, and when they reached the campus he was quite sober. Not a word was spoken until Hugh unlocked the door of Surrey 19. Then Slade said: “Go wash your face and head in cold water. Souse yourself good and then come back; I want to have a talk with you.”

Hugh obeyed orders, but with poor grace. He was angry and confused,