Ernest Hemingway - Complete Short Stories Of Ernest Hemingway, The

“Listen, Sergeant,” the little man said. “Didn’t you ever have to go to the can?”

“Not now,” the sergeant said. He did not want to leave the half asleep half awake state he was in. He was breathing slowly and heavily but when he would open his eyes his breathing would stop. The little man looked across at us but did not seem to recognize us.

“Sergeant,” he said. The sergeant did not answer. The little man ran his tongue over his lips. “Listen Sergeant, I got to go to the can.”

“All right,” the sergeant said. He stood up and the little man stood up and they walked down the aisle. I looked at my father. “Go on,” he said, “if you want to.” I walked after them down the aisle.

They were standing at the door.

“I want to go in alone,” the prisoner said.

“No you don’t.”

“Go on. Let me go in alone.”

“No.”

“Why not? You can keep the door locked.”

“I won’t take them off.”

“Go on, Sergeant. Let me go in alone.”

“We’ll take a look,” the sergeant said. They went inside and the sergeant shut the door. I was sitting on the seat opposite the door to the toilet. I looked down the aisle at my father. Inside I could hear them talking but not what they were saying. Someone turned the handle inside the door to open it and then I heard something fall against it and hit twice against the door. Then it fell on the floor. Then there was a noise as when you pick a rabbit up by the hind legs and slap its head against a stump to kill it. I was looking at my father and motioning. There was that noise three times and then I saw something come out from under the door. It was blood and it came out very slowly and smoothly. I ran down the aisle to my father. “There’s blood coming out under the door.”

“Sit down there,” my father said. He stood up, went across the aisle and touched the detective on the shoulder. The detective looked up.

“Your partner went up to the washroom,” my father said.

“Sure,” said the detective. “Why not?”

“My boy went up there and said he saw blood coming out from under the door.”

The detective jumped up and jerked the other prisoner over on the seat. The other prisoner looked at my father.

“Come on,” the detective said. The prisoner sat there. “Come on,” the detective said and the prisoner did not move. “Come on or I’ll blow your can off.”

“What’s it all about, your excellency?” the prisoner asked.

“Come on, you bastard,” the detective said.

“Aw, keep it clean,” the prisoner said.

They were going down the aisle, the detective ahead holding a gun in his right hand and the prisoner handcuffed to him hanging back. The passengers were standing up to see. “Stay where you are,” my father said. He took hold of me by the arm.

The detective saw the blood under the door. He looked around at the prisoner. The prisoner saw him looking and stood still. “No,” he said. The detective holding his gun in his right hand jerked down hard with his left hand and the prisoner slipped forward on his knees. “No,” he said. The detective watching the door and the prisoner shifted the revolver so he held it by the muzzle and hit the prisoner suddenly at the side of the head. The prisoner slipped down with his head and hands on the floor. “No,” he said shaking his head on the floor. “No. No. No.”

The detective hit him again and then again and he was quiet. He lay on the floor on his face with his head bent down on his chest. Watching the door, the detective laid the revolver down on the floor and leaning over unlocked the handcuff from the wrist of the prisoner. Then he picked up the revolver and stood up. Holding the revolver in his right hand he pulled the cord with his left to stop the train. Then he reached for the handle of the door.

The train was starting to slow.

“Get away from that door,” we heard someone say inside the door.

“Open it up,” said the detective and stepped back.

“Al,” the voice said. “Al, are you all right?”

The detective stood just to one side of the door. The train was slowing down.

“Al,” said the voice again. “Answer me if you’re all right.”

There was no answer. The train stopped. The brakeman opened the door. “What the hell?” he said. He looked at the man on the floor, the blood and the detective holding the revolver. The conductor was coming down from the other end of the car.

“There’s a fellow in there that’s killed a man,” the detective said.

“The hell there is. He’s gone out the window,” said the brakeman.

“Watch that man,” said the detective. He opened the door to the platform. I went across the aisle and looked out the window. Along the tracks there was a fence. Beyond the fence was the woods. I looked up and down the tracks. The detective came running by; then ran back. There was no one in sight. The detective came back in the car and they opened the door of the washroom. The door would not swing open because the sergeant was lying across it on the floor. The window was open about halfway. The sergeant was still breathing. They picked him up and carried him out into the car and they picked up the prisoner and put him in a seat. The detective put the handcuff through the handle of a big suitcase. Nobody seemed to know what to do or whether to look after the sergeant or try and find the little man or what. Everybody had gotten out of the train and looked down the tracks and in the edge of the woods. The brakeman had seen the little man run across the tracks and into the woods. The detective went into the woods a couple of times and then came out. The prisoner had taken the sergeant’s gun and nobody seemed to want to go very far into the woods after him. Finally they started the train to get to a station where they could send for the state constabulary and send out a description of the little man. My father helped them with the sergeant. He washed off the wound, it was between the collarbone and the neck, and sent me to get paper and towels from the washroom and folded them over and made a plug for it and tied it tight in with a sleeve from the sergeant’s shirt. They laid him out as comfortably as they could and my father washed off his face. His head had been banged against the floor of the washroom and he was still unconscious but my father said the wound was not serious. At the station they took him off and the detective took the other prisoner off too. The other prisoner’s face was white and he had a bruised bump on the side of his head. He looked silly when they took him off and seemed anxious to move very fast to do whatever they told him. My father came back in the car from helping them with the sergeant. They had put him in a motor truck that was at the station and were going to drive him to a hospital. The detective was sending wires. We were standing on the platform and the train started and I saw the prisoner standing there, leaning the back of his head against the wall of the station. He was crying.

I felt pretty bad about everything and we went in the smoker. The brakeman had a bucket and a bunch of waste and was mopping up and washing where the blood had been.

“How was he, Doc?” he said to my father.

“I’m not a doctor,” my father said. “But I think he’ll be all right.”

“Two big dicks,” said the brakeman. “And they couldn’t handle that one little shrimp.”

“Did you see him get out the window?”

“Sure,” said the brakeman. “Or I saw him just after he lit on the tracks.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No. Not when I first saw him. How do you think he stabbed him, Doc?”

“He must have jumped up on him from behind,” my father said.

“Wonder where he got the knife?”