Читать книгу The Story of Terrible Terry - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 7

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There were many weeks that winter when Andy’s pays were not so full. To many boys this would have been a problem, especially in the matter of fuel. But to Terry, who had had recourse to Terhune’s Coal Yards many times before, it was simply a case of ingenuity, or better still, strategy.

The yard, which lay over the meadows at the foot of Henry Street, had enough coal scattered over its bleak, bare grounds to keep Andy and Terry warm for the rest of their natural lives. But in the interests of law and order an over-observant watchman was employed along with a few railroad detectives to see that the coal remained on the ground. Time and the elements have already claimed its share of the anthracite, for all through the yards, acre upon acre, one may see great chunks and small chunks that have become so imbedded in the earth that they look and feel like rock.

“It’s a case of who gets it first,” said Terry, to his uncle one day, “me or the earth. And I’m Johnny-on-the-Spot every time. The earth won’t get ahead of me if I know it.”

And so it happened that Dinky, carrying a large basket (known as the coal basket), with Pip and Terry, started down Henry Street one Saturday morning on a mission to outwit the watchman at the yards. It was an exhilarating mission, to say the least, one that never ceased to give the boys their full share of thrills.

On the corner, at the end of the second block, they stopped short in front of the old, deserted Hunter Mansion. Tucker Marshall, a sleek, slim-looking boy of eighteen, sat languidly astride of the dilapidated porch rail, smiling. Terry eyed him, inquiringly pert.

“Say,” he shouted in his loudest voice, “this ain’t your place, Tuck. It’s ours—mine and Pip’s and Dink’s. Do you say it ain’t?”

Tucker Marshall looked searchingly down at the three little ruffians and smiled, a rather crooked smile that he had affected since going into long pants. “Who wants to know?” he asked.

“Me,” said Terry, tersely, “with a capital M!”

“Oh, yeah!” laughed Marshall. “You kids got the deed for this pile o’ second hand lumber, huh?”

“Well, maybe we don’t own it,” said Terry, angrily, “but we got a right to it, sort of. Man, it’s been our hang-out for years and even the cops let us play here and all because we never destroyed anything. They said it was falling to pieces anyhow, but still we didn’t ever touch nothing just so’s we could keep on coming here and call it our place. Do you say we ain’t got a right to call it our place, huh?”

“What do I care what you call it!” said Marshall, annoyed. “I should worry about the dump—I’m just waiting for a friend, that’s all. There ain’t any law against that, is there?”

“Nope,” said Terry, but still disapproving of Tucker’s presence. “How long you going to be here?”

“Why?” returned Marshall, evasively, “are you kids going to play here this morning?”

“We’re going down to Terhune’s and pick up some chunks, and when I say we’ll pick ’em up, why, we’ll pick ’em up!” Terry said, boastfully.

Marshall laughed. Then, thoughtfully, he dug his long, thin fingers into his pockets and brought forth some loose change. This he handed over to Terry. “There,” he said, “divide that up between the three of you. It’s to bring you luck. I heard you can always pick up more chunks at the Crossley yards, kids. Ever hear that? The watchman ain’t so nosey as the one at Terhune’s. Why don’t you try it?”

That was advice worth considering, Terry thought. The Crossley yards were a half mile farther on down the railroad tracks, but it seemed a likely proposition, if the watchman was non-observant of diminutive trespassers like themselves. And if he was observant there was always the novelty of a chase to be thought of.

“All right,” said Terry, impulsively. “We’ll try Crossley’s, then.” And, as was his habit, he reverted to the subject uppermost in his mind. “You ain’t going to hang out here long, are you, Tuck? Because when we come back we’re going to play and maybe we’ll even hold a meeting that has to be private, sort of. You know—we can’t have anyone around because it’s our place!”

Marshall laughed, sardonically. “Aw, go on—beat it!” he said, hastily. “What do you think—I’m going to run away with the place! By the time you’re back from Crossley’s I’ll be five miles from here—maybe ten.”

Terry felt relieved. He disliked Marshall, distrusted him, and held the opinion with Henry Street that the loafing young man would some day get into serious trouble and bring his good, but poor parents to grief.

Perhaps it was Andy’s little talk after the Hallowe’en excursion that suddenly came to mind, perhaps not. At any rate, Terry was seized with a sudden desire to show Marshall that his ambitions in the future were going to be lofty and noble.

“I’m going to work hard when I get as old as you,” said Terry, frankly. “Maybe even this year I’ll start working, ’cause I’m going to save up so I can buy this place some day. Then nobody will be allowed to sit on the porch rail or nothing—nobody but Pip and Dink and me. I’m going to be rich!”

“Yeah,” said Marshall, more amused than anything. “You’ll have to be richer than the Terhunes, then, kid, because I hear they own this place and everything else up and down Henry Street—your house, my house, everybody’s house. Try and get ahead of that old miser and you’ll have to go some. The only thing he don’t own in Bridgeboro is the air.”

Terry gasped with surprise, but held his ground. Once he got started on an idea, he stuck to it. “Just the same, I’ll own it some day,” he persisted. “It doesn’t say because he’s got so much money that I won’t have money, too, does it?”

Marshall did not answer, but looked anxiously up the street. Then, restlessly, he paced up and down the porch and Terry, construing this action as a peremptory dismissal, linked arms with his cronies and marched defiantly down the street.

“Tuck ain’t any good,” he announced at length. “I always heard Andy say it, and now I know he was right. Anyway, he can’t be making dates there any more and if I see him, I’ll think up something to make trouble for him.”

“We’ll help you,” said Pip, loyally.

“Same here,” squeaked Dinky, vehemently. “My ma says he ain’t a good example for us kids. He ought to work.”

“I’m going to work,” said Terry, quite seriously. “We’re all going to work. We could work for Sam, maybe. I’m going to ask him.”

“You won’t take any more oranges or apples that have fallen on the floor then, huh?” inquired Pip, anxiously.

“Nope,” answered Terry, his voice ringing with contrition. “We shouldn’t have done that, ever, but then mostly always there was bad spots in the things we took so Sam couldn’t have sold them, anyway. But I’m going to be like Andy wants me to after this. I’m going to be am—am...”

“Ambitious,” Pip interposed, helpfully.

“Yeah, ambitious,” acknowledged Terry, gratefully. “I really am going to save money and build our hang-out over so we can live in it when we get older. What do you say?”

Pip and Dinky thought it was an inspiration and under the glamour of Terry’s temperamental outburst of flimsy air castles, they soared to unknown heights. Dinky especially fell under the spell of his leader’s noble aspirations and keenly suffered a momentary pang of conscience.

“Is—is it stealing to swipe some prunes that have mostly all worms in them?” he asked, timidly.

Terry frowned, thoughtfully. “From Sam?” he asked, with sudden dignity.

“Yeah,” answered Dinky, remorsefully. “I took four yesterday and three had worms in them. They were kind of dried, anyhow.”

“Then it ain’t stealing, I guess. Anyhow, I’ll ask Andy about it, but hereafter we all got to do things right.”

They resolved to do that, solemnly, and reached the railroad tracks that ran alongside of Terhune’s vast yards. Suddenly the ever-observant watchman appeared from behind the great board fence that enclosed the upper end of the property where the lumber was stored. He stopped short at sight of the “three musketeers,” as he had called them since a certain memorable occasion.

“Well, where are you kids going?” he asked, his arms akimbo, and a menacing frown on his soiled, weather-beaten features.

“Crossley’s,” said Terry, grinning triumphantly. “We don’t like your chunks here any more.”

The man frowned. “Yeah? Well, that saves me some steps, anyway. See that you don’t change your mind. Keep right on going,” he growled and slipped behind the fence.

Terry’s fair, freckled brows wrinkled up, thoughtfully. Suddenly he stopped and drew the attention of his companions to a train of five full coal cars that were being unloaded at the further end of the yards.

“Just for him talking so mean and all, we won’t go on to Crossley’s,” he said, determinedly. “We’ll fool him for his smart talk—I’ll fix him good!”

DINKY GATHERED THE PRECIOUS NUGGETS INTO THE BASKET WHILE TERRY SUPERVISED THE ATTACK.

By good he meant thoroughly. And no one who had witnessed Terry’s methods in handling the coal situation could deny that he was aught but efficient.