en

Stephen Crane

    b5715170792har citeretsidste år
    A very little boy stood upon a heap of gravel for the honor of Rum Alley. He was throwing stones at howling urchins from Devil’s Row who were circling madly about the heap and pelting at him.

    His infantile countenance was livid with fury. His small body was writhing in the delivery of great, crimson oaths.

    “Run, Jimmie, run! Dey’ll get yehs,” screamed a retreating Rum Alley child.

    “Naw,” responded Jimmie with a valiant roar, “dese micks can’t make me run.”

    Howls of renewed wrath went up from Devil’s Row throats. Tattered gamins on the right made a furious assault on the gravel heap. On their small, convulsed faces there shone the grins of true assassins. As they charged, they threw stones and cursed in shrill chorus.

    The little champion of Rum Alley stumbled precipitately down the other side. His coat had been torn to shreds in a scuffle, and his hat was gone. He had bruises on twenty parts of his body, and blood was dripping from a cut in his head. His wan features wore a look of a tiny, insane demon.

    On the ground, children from Devil’s Row closed in on their antagonist. He crooked his left arm defensively about his head and fought with cursing fury. The little boys ran to and fro, dodging, hurling stones and swearing in barbaric trebles.

    From a window of an apartment house that upreared its form from amid squat, ignorant stables, there leaned a curious woman. Some laborers, unloading a scow at a dock at the river, paused for a moment and regarded the fight. The engineer of a passive tugboat hung lazily to a railing and watched. Over on the Island, a worm building and crawled slowly along the river’s bank.

    A stone had smashed into Jimmie’s mouth. Blood was bubbling over his chin and down upon his ragged shirt. Tears made furrows on his dirt-stained cheeks. His thin legs had begun to tremble and turn weak, causing his small body to reel. His roaring curses of the first part of the fight had changed to a blasphemous chatter.

    In the yells of the whirling mob of Devil’s Row children there were notes of joy like songs of triumphant savagery. The little boys seemed to leer gloatingly at the blood upon the other child’s face.
    ksenia lundhar citeretsidste år
    The oiler, steering with one of the two oars in the boat, sometimes raised himself suddenly to keep clear of water that swirled in over the stern.
    ksenia lundhar citeretsidste år
    is sleeves were rolled over his fat forearms, and the two flaps of his unbuttoned vest dangled as he bent to bail out the boat.
    ksenia lundhar citeretsidste år
    The injured captain, lying in the bow, was at this time buried in that profound dejection and indifference which comes, temporarily at least, to even the bravest and most enduring when, willy nilly, the firm fails, the army loses, the ship goes down
    ksenia lundhar citeretsidste år
    eep 'er a little more south, Billie,"
    ksenia lundhar citeretsidste år
    A little more south,' sir," s
    ksenia lundhar citeretsidste år
    a ten-foot dingey one can get an idea of the resources of the sea in the line of waves that is not probable to the average experience which is never at sea in a dingey.
    ksenia lundhar citeretsidste år
    though he commanded for a day or a decade, and this captain had on him the stern impression of a scene in
    ksenia lundhar citeretsidste år
    the greys of dawn of seven turned faces, and later a stump of a top-mast with a white ball on it that slashed to and fro at the waves, went low and lower, and down. Thereafter there was something strange in his voice.
    ksenia lundhar citeretsidste år
    In the wan light, the faces of the men must have been grey. Their eyes must have glinted in strange ways as
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