THE KILLERS by Ernest Hemingway

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SCRiBNER's M A G A Z I N E

VOL.

LXXXI

M RCH

1927 NO. 3

The Ki l le rs

B Y E R N E S T H E M I N G W A Y

Auth or of T h e Sun Also Rises , etc.

I L L U S T R A T I O N S B Y C . L E R O Y B A L D R I D G E

HE door of Henry's

lunch-room opened

and two men came in.

They sat down at the

counter. ;

W h a t ' s y o u r s ?

George asked them.

I d o n ' t k n o w ,

one of the men said. W ha t do you wan t

to 'ea t , A l? 'r ^ , ; .- - ' /

;:^Î:,dpn't kn ow , ;said Al. I don't

know wh at I want to eat. . . ;

/ Outside it was getting dark. Th e street

light came on outside the window. Th e

two men at the counter read the menu.

From the other end of the counter Niek

Adam s watched them. H e had been talk

ing to George when they came in.

• I ' l l have a roast pork tenderloin with ;

apple sauce and mashed po tat o, the first

man said. - _

, I t i sn ' t ready ye t .

, W h at the hell do you pu t it on the

card for?

T h at 's the dinn er, G eo rg e e:xplained.

You can get that at six o'clock.

George looked at the clock on the wall

behind the counter.

It's five o'clock.

The clock says twenty minutes past

live,

the second man said.

I t 's twenty minutes fast .

G h, to hell with the clock, the first

man said. W ha t have you got to e at ?

I can give you any kind of sand

wiches, George said. Y ou can hav e

ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver and

bacon, or a steak.

Give me chicken croquettes with

green peas and cream sauce and mashed

potatoes.

That 's the dinner.

Everything we want's the dinner, eh?

That's the way you work it.

I can give you ham and eggs, bacon

and eggs, liver— — ; - . - ' , .

I ' l l take ham and eggs, the man

called Al said. H e wore a derby ha t an d

a black overcoat buttoned across

the

chest. His face was small and wh ite and

he had tig ht lips. H e wore a silk muflBer

an d gloves. . ,

Giv e me bacon and eggs, said the

other man . He was abo ut the same size as ;

Al. Th eir faces were different, b u t th ey

were dressed like twins., Both wore over

coats too tight for them. The y sat lean-;

ing forward, their elbows on the counter.

G ot anything to dr in k? Al asked.

Silver beer, bevo, ginger ale, George

said. _ ,_ ^ _ : •.'_:/'-'.

I mean you got anything to drink?

Ju st those I, said. ;

Th is is a ho t tow n, said the other.

What do they ca l l i t?

Summit .

E ve r hear of i t ? Al asked his friend.

N o ,

said the friend.

W ha t do you do here nig hts ? Al

asked. .

T h ey eat the din ner, his friend said.

They all come here and eat the big

dinner.

T h at 's right, George said.

So you think that 's r ig ht ? Al asked

George.

C o p y r i g h t e d in 1927 in Un i t e d S t a t e s , C an ada , and G r ea t B r i t a i n by C l i a r l e s S c r i bn e r ' s

Sons .

P r i n t e d i n N e w Yoric. Al l r i gh t s r eserv ed.

227



228

T H E K I L L E R S

Sure .

You're a pretty bright boy, aren't

y o u ?

S ur e, said George.

W ell, you 're no t, said the other little

man. I s he , A l?

H e's du m b, said Al. H e turned to

Nick. W hat's your name ?

A d a m s .

An other bright boy , Al said. A in' t

he a br ight boy. Max?

T he tow n's full of bright boy s, M ax

said.

George pu t the two platte rs, one of ham

and eggs, the other of bacon and eggs, on

the cou nter. H e set down two side-dishes

of fried potatoes and closed the wicket

into the kitchen.

W hich is yo ur s? he asked Al.

Don ' t you r emember?

Ham and eggs.

Ju st a bright boy , M ax said. He

leaned forward and took the ham and

eggs.

Bo th men a te with their gloves on.

George watched them eat.

W h a t are you looking a t ? Max

looked at George.

No th ing .

T h e hell you were. You were looking

a t me .

Maybe the boy meant it for a joke.

M ax, Al said.

George laughed.

"You don 't have to laugh, Max said

to him. You don't have to laugh at all,

s e e ?

Al l rig ht, said George.

So he thinks it 's all right. M ax

turne d to Al. H e thinks it's all right.

That's a good one.

O h, he's a thinke r, Al said. They

went on eating.

What's the bright boy's name down

the counter ? Al asked M ax.

H ey , bright boy , M ax said to Nick.

You go around on the other side of the

counter with your boy friend.

W ha t 's the id ea ? Nick asked.

There isn ' t any idea.

You better go around, bright boy,

Al said. Nick we nt around behind the

counter.

W ha t 's the id ea ? George asked.

N on e of your dam n busines s, Al said.

Who's out in the kitchen?

The nigger.

What do you mean the nigger?

The nigger that cooks.

Tell him to come in.

Wha t ' s the idea?

Tell him to come in.

Where do you think you are

?

We know damn well where we

are ,

the

ma n called M ax said. D o we look silly ?

Y ou talk silly, Al said to him .

W ha t the hell do you argue with this kid

for? Lis ten, he said to George, tel l the

nigger to come out here.

What are you going to do to him?

No thing . Use your head, bright boy.

What would we do to a nigger ?

George opened the slit that opened,

back into the kitchen. S am , he called.

Come in here a minute.

The door to the kitchen opened and the

nigger came in. W ha t was i t ? he

asked. The two men at the counter took

a look at him.

A ll right, nigger. You stand right

the re, Al said.

Sam, the nigger, standing in his apron,

looked at the two men sitting at the coun

ter. Y es , sir, he said. Al got down

from his stool.

I ' m going back to the kitchen with the

nigger and bright bo y, he said. Go on

back t o the kitc hen , nigger-. You go w ith

him, bright boy . Th e little ma n walked

after Nick and Sam, the cook, back into

the kitchen. Th e door shu t after th em .

The man called Max sat at the counter

opposite George. H e did n't look at

George but looked in the mirror that ran

along back of the counter. H en ry's had

been made over from a saloon into a

lunch-counter.

W ell, bright bo y, M ax said, looking

into the mirror, w hy don't you say

something

?

What ' s i t a l l about?

H ey , Al, Max called, brig ht boy

wants to know what it 's all about.

W hy don 't you tell h im ? Al's voice

came from the kitchen.

What do you think i t ' s al l about?

I don't know.

W hat do you th ink?

Max looked into the mirror all the time

he was talking.

I wouldn't say.

Hey, Al, bright boy says he wouldn't

say what he thinks it 's all about.



T H E K I L L E R S 229

I can hear you, all righ t, Al said

from the kitchen. He had propped open

the sht that dishes passed through into

the kitchen with a catsup bottle . ' ' Listen,

brig ht bo y, he said from the kitchen to

George. Stand a little further along the

bar . You move a little to the left, M ax .

He was like a photographer arranging for

a group picture.

W h at are you going to kill Ole An-

dreson for? W hat did he ever do to

y o u ?

He never had a chance to do anything

to us. He never even seen us .

And he's only going to see us once,

Al said from the kitchen.

W h a t are you going to kill him for,

t h e n ?

George asked.

You're a pretty bright boy, aren't you? —Page 22S.

Ta lk to me, bright boy , M ax said.

What do you think's going to happen

?

George did not say anything.

I'll tell you , M ax said. W e're going

to kill a Swede. Do you know a big Swede

named Ole Andreson?

Y e s .

He comes here to eat every night,

don ' t he? .

Sometimes he comes here.

He comes here at six o'clock, don't

h e ?

If he comes.

W e know all tha t, bright boy , Max

said. T al k abou t something else. Ever

go to the moyies?

Once in a while.

You ought to go to the movies more.

The movies are fine for a bright boy like

you.

W e're killing him for a friend. Ju st to

oblige a friend, bright boy.

Sh ut up , said Al from the kitchen.

You talk too goddam much.

Well, I got to keep brigh t boy amused.

Don ' t I , b r ight boy?

Yo u talk too damn muc h, Al said.

T h e nigger and m y brigh t boy are

amused by themselves. I got them tied

up like a couple of girl friends in the con

vent .

I suppose you were in a convent.

You never know.

You were in a kosher convent.

That 's where you were.

George looked up at the clock.

If anyb ody comes in you tell them the

cook is off, and if they keep after it, you

tell them you'll go back and cook your

self. Do you get that , bright b o y ?



23

T H E K I L L E R S

A ll righ t, George said. W ha t you

going to do with us afterward?

Th at ' l l depend, M ax said. T ha t 's

one of those things you never know a t the

t ime.

George looked up at th e clock. I t was a

qu arte r pa st six. Th e door from th e street

opened. A street-car motorm an came in.

He llo, George, he said. C an I get

supper ?

Sa m 's gone ou t, George said. H e'll

be back in about half an hour.

I 'd better go up the street, the motor-

m an said. George looked at the clock. It

was twenty minutes past six.

T h a t was nice, bright boy , M ax said.

You're a regular little gentleman.

H e knew I'd blow his hea d off, Al

said from the kitchen.

N o , said M ax. I t ain ' t that .

Brig ht boy is nice. H e's a nice boy. I

like him.

A t six-fifty-five George said : H e 's not

coming.

Two other people had been in the

lunch-room. Once George ha d gone ou t

to the kitchen and made a ham-and-egg

sandwich to g o that a man wanted to

tak e with him. Inside the kitchen he saw

Al, his derby ha t tipped back, sitting on a

stool beside th e wicket w ith th e muzzle of

a sawed-off shotgun resting on the ledge.

Nick and the cook were back to back in

the corner, a towel tied in each of their

mo uths. George had cooked the sand

wich, wrapped it up in oiled paper, put it

in a bag, brought it in, and th e ma n had

paid for it and gone out.

Brig ht boy can do everything, M ax

said. H e can cook and everything .

You'd make some girl a nice wife, bright

boy .

Y e s ?

George said. Y ou r friend,

Ole Andreson, isn't going to come.

W e'l l give him ten minutes, Max

said.

Max watched the mirror and the clock.

The hands of the clock marked seven

o'clock, and then five minutes past

seven.

Co me on, Al, said Max. W e better

go. He 's not coming.

B et ter give him five m inutes , Al said

from the kitchen.

In the five minu tes a ma n came in, and

George explained that the cook was sick.

Why the hell don't you get another

cook

?

the m an asked. Are n't you run

ning a lunch-counter ? He went out .

Co me on, A l, M ax said.

What about the two bright boys and

the n igger?

They're al l r ight .

You th ink so?

Sure .

W e're through with it .

I don 't like it , said Al. I t ' s sloppy.

You talk too much.

O h, wh at the hell , said M ax. W e

got to keep amused, haven' t we?

Y ou talk too much, all the sam e, Al

said. H e came out from th e kitche n.

Th e cut-off barrels of the shotg un ma de a

slight bulge under the waist of his too

tight-fitting overcoat. He straightened

his coat with his gloved hands.

So

long, brigh t bo y, he said to

George. Y ou got a lot of luc k.

Th at ' s the t ru th , Max, sa id . Y ou

ought to play the races, bright boy.

The two of them went out the door.

George watched them through the win

dow pass und er th e arc-light and cross the

street. In their tight overcoats and derb y

hats they looked like a vaudeville team.

George went back through the swinging

door into the kitchen and untied N ick an d

the cook.

I don 't wan t any more of th at , said

Sam,

the cook. I don't w ant an y more of

tha t .

Nick stood up. He had never had a

towel in his mo uth before.

Sa y, he said. W hat the he ll? He

was trying to swagger it off.

They were going to kill Ole Andre-

son , George said. T he y were going to

shoot him when he came in to eat.

Ole Andreson?

Sure .

The cook felt the corners of his mouth

with his thumbs.

T he y all go ne ? he asked.

Y ea h, said George. Th ey 're gone

now.

I do n't like it , said the cook. I

don't hke any of it at all.

Li ste n, George said to Nick. Y ou

better go see Ole Andreson.

All r ight .

You better not have anything to do

with it at all, Sam , the cook, said. You

better stay way out of it .



THE KILLERS

want to,

231

Don't go if you don't

George said.

Mixing up in this ain't going to get

you anyw here, the cook said. You stay

out of it.

I ' ll go see hi m , Nick said to George.

Where does he l ive?

The cook turned away.

stairs and back to the end of a corridor.

She knocked on the door.

W ho i s i t ?

It 's somebody to see you, Mr. A ndre-

son, the wom an said.

I t ' s Nick Adams.

Come in .

Nick opened the door and went into the

I

- i . '

f^

r

' nnthiht:

aioiwî

All right, nigger. You stand right there. —P age 228.

Little boys always know what they

wa nt to do , he said.

He lives up at Hirsch's rooming-

hou se, George said to Nick.

I ' l l go up there.

Outside the arc-light shone through the

bare branches of a tree. Nick walked up

the street beside the car-tracks and turned

at the next arc-light down a side street.

Three houses up the street was Hirsch's

rooming-house. Nick walked up the two

steps and pushed the bell. A woman came

to the door.

Is Ole Andreson here?

Do you want to see him?

Yes ,

if he's in.

Nick followed the woman up a flight of

room. Ole Andreson was lying on the bed

with all his clothes on. He ha d been a

heavyweight prizefighter and he was too

long for the bed. He lay with his head on

two pillows. H e did not look at N ick.

W ha t was i t ? he asked.

I was up at H en ry's, Nick said, and

two fellows came in and tied up me and

the cook, and they said they were going

to kill you.

I t sounded silly when he said it. Ole

Andreson said nothing.

Th ey pu t us out in the kitchen , Nick

we nt on. T h ey were going to shoot you

when you came in to supper.

Ole Andreson looked at the wall and did

not say anything.



There i sn ' t an> ' t i i ing I can do aijout it, Ole Andrcson said .

George thoug ht I better come and tell

you about

it.

There isn ' t anything I can do about

i t , Ole Andreson said.

I ' ll tell you what they were like.

I don' t want to know w hat they were

like, Ole Andreson said. He looked at

the wall. Th ank s

for

coming

to

tell

me

about it.

T h a t ' s all right.

Nick looked at the big man lying on the

bed.

D o n ' t you want me to go and see the

police

?

N o , Ole Andreson said. T h at

wouldn' t do any good.

Isn't there something

I

could

do?

N o .

There ain't anything

to do.

M a y b e

it was

just

a blujff.

N o . It

ain ' t just

a bluff.

Ole Andreson rolled over toward

the

wall.

The only thing is, he said, talking

toward the wall, I just can't make up my

mind to go out. I been in here all day.

232

Couldn ' t

you get out of

t o w n ?

N o ,

Ole Andreson said.

I 'm

through

with all tha t running around.

He looked at the wall.

There ain ' t anything to do now.

Couldn ' t you fix it up some way?

N o .

I got in

wrong.

He

talked

in

the same flat voice. Th ere ain 't any

thing to do. After a while I'll make up

my mind

to go out.

T better go back and see George,

Nick said.

So long , said Ole Andreson. He did

not look toward Nick. Th an ks for com

ing around.

Nick went out. As he shut the door he

saw Ole Andreson with all his clothes on,

lying

on the bed

looking

at the

wall.

He 's been

in his

room

all day, the

landlady said down-stairs. I guess he

don't feel well. I said to him: 'Mr. An-

dreson, you ought to go out and take a

walk

on a

nice fall

day

like this,'

but he

didn't feel hke it.

He doesn' t want to go out.



T H E C A T H O L IC L A Y W O M A N 'S V I E W - P O I N T

233

I 'm sorry he don 't feel well, the wo

ma n said. H e' s an awfully nice ma n.

He was in the ring, you know.

I know it .

You'd never know it except from the

way his face is, the woman said. Th ey

stood talking just inside the street door.

He 's just as gentle .

W ell , good night, M rs. Hirsch, Nick

said.

I ' m not M rs. Hirsch, the woman

said. Sh e owns the place. I ju st look

after it for her. I'm M rs. Be ll.

W ell, good night, Mrs. Bell, Nick

said.

Good nig ht, the woman said.

Nick walked up the dark street to the

corner under the arc-light, and then

along the car-tracks to Henry's eating-

house. George was inside, back of th e

counter.

Did you see Ole?

Y e s , said Nick. H e's in his room

and he won't go out.

The cook opened the door from the

kitchen when he heard Nick's voice.

I d on 't even listen to it, he said, and

shut the door.

D id you te ll him about i t ? George

asked.

Su re. I told him bu t he knows what

it 's a ll about.

What ' s he going to do?

N o th in g .

They' l l kil l him.

I guess they will.

He must have got mixed up in some

thing in Chicago.

I guess so , said Nick .

It 's a hell of a thing,

It 's an awful thin g, Nick said.

The y did not say anything . George

reached down for a towel and wiped the

counter.

I wonder wh at he d id ? Nick said.

Double-crossed somebody. T ha t's

what they kill them for.

I 'm going to get out of this town,

Nick said.

Y e s , said George. T h at 's a good

thing to do.

I can ' t s tand to think about him w ait

ing in the room a nd know ing he's going to

get it. It 's too damn ed aw ful.

W ell, said George, yo u better not

think about i t .

The Cathol ic Laywoman's View-Point

BY GR CE H USM NN SHERWOOD

^ ^ ^ ^

T a time like this when

our foremost m a g a

zines carry almost in

variably with each is

sue one article about

religion an d som etimes

more than one; when

even the

American

Mercury, edited by that famous scoffer,

Henry Mencken, falls into line with the

publication not so long ago of an article

with the significant tit le: A New G od for

Am erica, it seems not improbable to me

that the view-point of the Catholic lay-

woman might interest the general reader.

For among th e man y voices which have

been heard in this modern pulpit of the

printed page, among the modernist, the

fundamentahst, the layman who has just

VOL. L X X X L — I 8

discovered the things of the spirit for the

first time and the minister who is about

to give them up because he has lost his

faith in them, the man who thinks that

Christ's example is the only religion

needed anywhere and the woman who

would offer us Buddha as a substitute

for Christ, the missionary's note-book

from some outpost of civiUzation and the

gropings after spirituahty of the man in

the street—among all these the Catholic

woman has been silent. W ha t she thinks

of her rehgion, how she feels about its

practices as they relate to her and to her

children, how full her share in spiritual

things can be in a church governed en

tirely by men, and by m en, at that , with

out wives, has not been told—îf I have

kept track of the argument and affirma-

Documents

THE KILLERS by Ernest Hemingway