Читать книгу Buddy in School - Howard R Garis - Страница 4

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Buddy martyne played on both the junior baseball nine and the football eleven of Clover School where he was a pupil. Of course he wasn’t on either of the big teams, for he was only in the lower grades, but he was a sturdy little chap and one of the best runners, for his age, in the school.

So now, that he had a head-start of the dark boy, and because he had been running when he kicked the can, Buddy was far enough in advance of the other to keep out of his reach half way down the block.

But then, as Buddy looked back over his shoulder, he saw, when near the corner, that the bigger boy was gaining on him.

“He’ll catch me before I get to the corner,” thought Buddy. “That is unless I do something! And I’ve got to do it quick!”

And Buddy was the sort of a boy who always did something when he saw trouble ahead of him. He didn’t wait for things to happen; he helped himself.

And now, as he looked back and saw that the big boy was still gaining on him, Buddy had an idea of a little trick he could play.

“That can isn’t much good,” thought Buddy to himself, “and I don’t see why he’s making such a fuss over it. He can have it if he wants it, after I kick it again. And that’s what I’m going to do!”

Buddy was beginning to tire a little now, so he slowed up in his running. On came the big, dark boy with long strides.

“I’ve got you!” he shouted. “Kick my can; will you! I’ll fix you!”

He was very near to Buddy now and reached out a hand to grab the little fellow. But Buddy knew about dodging, from having played football, so he ducked down, swung to one side and the other boy’s hands just went swinging through the air over Buddy’s head.

At the same time Buddy threw his bundle of books between the other boy’s legs and in an instant they had tripped him so that he fell sprawling on the sidewalk.

“How do you like that?” cried Buddy as he dashed to one side, picked up his books and ran on toward the still rolling can.

“I—I’ll get you yet!” cried the dark boy as he scrambled to his feet and again raced on after Buddy.

Perhaps if I take just a moment, now, to tell you who Buddy was you will feel as if you knew him better. If you read the book before this called “Buddy on the Farm; or A Boy and His Prize Pumpkin,” you are already friends with the little lad. But if you have not read that book you must know that Buddy, or Dick Martyne, was the only son of Mr. and Mrs. Clayton Martyne who lived in the small city of Mountchester. Buddy had many friends and playmates, among them being Tom Gordon and Lucy, his sister, Harry Clee, Charlie Taylor, Mary Norse, and Jerry and Agnes Fleck. Jerry and Agnes were the fattest children in Clover school.

When the classes ended in the spring, and the long vacation started, Buddy had seen, in Mr. Rudolph’s toy store window, a wonderful pair of ball bearing roller skates with rubber tires on the wheels to make them very quiet.

Buddy very much wanted these skates but as he already had a good pair of the old fashioned, iron-wheeled ones, his father said, if he wanted a new pair, he must earn the money for them.

“I never can earn five dollars!” said Buddy, this being the price of the wonderful skates. “I only have a dollar ‘n sixteen cents saved up in my bank.”

Then came an invitation from Grandpa Kendall for the Martyne family to spend the summer on Blue Hill Farm, and of course Buddy went there. How he had many strange adventures, and earned enough money for his skates with his prize pumpkin, is told in the first of these “Buddy Books.” It’s a jolly story.

And now Buddy was back home in Mountchester, he had started for school but he was not finished with his adventures. For now this dark boy, who, Buddy decided was a Gypsy, was chasing after him.

Buddy ran faster, he thought, than he had ever run in his life before, even at the time when he had the ball and raced down the field to make a touchdown. He might easily have slipped into some of the stores he passed, for he knew who kept nearly all of them, and, in this way, he could easily have escaped from that chasing boy.

But Buddy had a way of his own and he had made up his mind that he was going to give that old tomato can another kick before he let the Gypsy have it.

“Though I can’t think why he wants it!” murmured Buddy.

Buddy ran so fast, and it took the other boy such a long time to get on his feet again after being tripped by the books, that soon our small, red-haired lad was again close behind the can.

“Here goes for the last kick!” cried Buddy as a quick glance over his shoulder showed him the Gypsy to be coming along on the run.

“Plunk!” went Buddy’s shoe against the can.

With a rattle and bang it rolled bumping down the street. But, instead of kicking it straight ahead of him, Buddy had sent the can around the corner and down an alley.

“Chase down there after it if you want it!” cried Buddy to the other boy and then, feeling that he had played this game long enough, Buddy slipped into Mr. Cutter’s butcher shop, almost falling down on the slippery, sawdust-covered floor in his haste.

“Hello, Buddy!” exclaimed Mr. Cutter who was hanging up a ham on a hook in the window. “Do you want anything?”

“I want to get away from a Gypsy boy who is chasing me,” Buddy answered with a smile. “I found a can and kicked it and he said it was his, but I got the best of him. Now I’m tired.”

“A Gypsy; eh?” exclaimed Mr. Cutter. “There used to be a camp of them out along the state road. But if anybody is chasing you, Buddy, I’ll have something to say about that!”

Mrs. Martyne was one of Mr. Cutter’s best customers and he had known Buddy all his life. The butcher left the ham on the window hook and walked to the door while Buddy sat down on one of the white revolving stools to get his breath.

Just then the Gypsy came running along. But when he looked in the door and saw Buddy, and also saw the big, fat butcher in the doorway, that Gypsy had no further wish to chase the red-haired boy. Buddy thought this would happen and laughed to himself.

“What’s the idea, Gypsy boy?” asked the butcher. “What do you mean by chasing Buddy and taking his can?”

The other lad did not answer but scowled at Buddy and then shuffled off down the alley into which the old tomato can had bounced.

“I guess he won’t bother you any more, Buddy,” said Mr. Cutter with a smile. “Are you afraid to go on to school? If you are, I’ll send my delivery chap with you. He hasn’t anything to do just now.”

“Oh, no, thank you, I’m not afraid!” said Buddy. “I’ll meet some of the other fellows pretty soon, I guess. Anyhow, I don’t believe that Gypsy will come after me any more. He just seemed to want that can.”

“What did he want of it?” the butcher asked.

“I don’t know,” Buddy answered. “Unless he wanted to kick it same as I was doing. And he could get a can of his own.”

“Sure!” chuckled Mr. Cutter. “There’s a lot of old cans in my back yard that he can have for nothing. He was a queer sort of customer, though, Buddy. I wouldn’t have anything to do with him if I were you.”

“I’m not going to,” was the answer. “I guess he’s mad at me.”

“Mad at you!” exclaimed Mr. Cutter. “What for; just because you kicked a can?”

“That, and because I tripped him up when I chucked my books at him,” Buddy answered, smiling a little.

“Tripped him—with your books? Ha! Ha!” laughed Mr. Cutter. “Tell me about it, Buddy!” and he sat down on another white, revolving stool beside Buddy and whirled himself around, smiling and chuckling as the blue-eyed boy told what had happened.

“Good for you!” exclaimed Mr. Cutter when Buddy had finished. “It served him right! Here, have an apple!” and he took one from a basket and handed it to his visitor. A bright, red apple it was.

“Thank you,” said Buddy. “I’ll eat it at recess.”

“That’s so, school begins today,” said Mr. Cutter as he looked at a calendar on the wall. “Everybody is back from vacation, so business will be better now. It’s always slow in summer. But you’d better skip along, Buddy,” he added, looking at his clock. “Don’t want to be late the first day, you know.”

“I’m going now,” Buddy said, noticing that it was a quarter to nine. He must be in his seat at five minutes of nine. But the school was only around the corner. He could get there in two minutes. He need not hurry.

Mr. Cutter stepped out of his shop and looked down the alley into which Buddy had kicked the can. He wanted to make sure the Gypsy boy was not hiding there to rush out on Buddy when the latter left the meat store.

“He’s away down at the far end, Buddy,” the butcher said. “He won’t see you now.”

“Thank you,” Buddy remarked and then he once more started for school, swinging his strap of books. But as he was about to hurry along the street he looked down the alley to see what the Gypsy might be doing with that can. It was quite a mystery.

And what Buddy saw caused him suddenly to start running; not away from the Gypsy but straight toward him! For Buddy saw the brown-faced boy in the act of tying that can on the tail of a poor, shivering dog in the alley.

“So that’s why he wanted the can—to tie on a dog’s tail!” cried Buddy, his blue eyes flashing. “Well, I’ll make him quit that!”

Swinging his books as if in readiness to bang them on the head of the Gypsy, Buddy rushed toward him down the alley crying:

“Stop that! Let that dog go! Don’t you dare tie that tin can on his tail! Stop!”

“Oh, go chase yourself!” growled the Gypsy and, holding the now yelping dog under one arm, with the other hand he slipped over the poor animal’s tail a loop of string to which was tied the tin can.