Читать книгу Tom Slade, Boy Scout - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 5

Table of Contents

That night, when Tom Slade, all unaware of the tragedy which threatened his young life, shuffled into Billy’s garage, he announced to his followers a plan which showed his master mind as leader of the gang.

“Hey,” said he, “I heard Sissy Bennett’s mother say she’s goin’ ter have a s’prise party fer him Friday night, ’n’ d’yer know wot I’m goin’ ter do?”

“Tell him and spoil it fer him?” ventured Joe Flynn.

“Na-a-h!”

“Tick-tack?” asked Slush Ryder.

“Na-ah, tick-tacks is out o’ date.”

“Cord ter trip ’em up?”

“Guess agin, guess agin,” said Tom, exultantly.

But as no one ventured any further guesses, he announced his plan forthwith.

“Don’t say a word—don’t say a word,” he ejaculated. “I swiped two o’ thim quarantine signs offen two doors, ’n’ I’m gon’er tack one up on Sissy’s door Friday night! Can yer beat it?”

None of them could beat it, for it was an inspiration. To turn away Master Connover’s young guests by this simple but effectual device was worthy of the leadership qualities of Tom Slade. Having thus advertised the possibilities of the signs he took occasion to announce,

“I got anoder one, an’ I’ll sell it fer a dime.” But even though he marked it down to a dime, none would buy, so he announced his intention of raffling it off.

Before the momentous evening of Connover’s party arrived, however, something else happened which had a curious and indirect effect upon the carrying out of Tom’s plan.

On Wednesday afternoon three men came down Barrel Alley armed with a paper for Bill Slade. It was full of “whereases” and “now, therefores” and other things which Bill did not comprehend, but he understood well enough the meaning of their errand.

The stone which Tom had thrown at John Temple had rebounded with terrific force!

One man would have been enough, goodness knows, to do the job in hand, for there were only six or seven pieces of furniture. They got in each other’s way a good deal and spat tobacco juice, while poor helpless, inefficient Bill Slade stood by watching them.

From various windows and doors the neighbors watched them too, and some congratulated themselves that their own rents were paid, while others wondered what would become of poor Tom now.

This was the scene which greeted Tom as he came down Barrel Alley from school.

“Wot are they doin’?” he asked.

“Can’t you see wot they’re a-doin’?” roared his father. “’Tain’t them that’s doin’ it neither, it’s you—you done it!! It’s you took the roof from over my head, you and old John Temple!” Advancing menacingly, he poured forth a torrent of abuse at his wretched son.

“The two o’ yez done it! You wid yer rocks and him wid his dirty marshals and judges! I’ll get the both o’ yez yet! Ye sneakin’ rat!”

He would have struck Tom to the ground if Mrs. O’Connor, a mournful figure in shoddy black, had not crossed the street and forced her way between them.

“’Twas you done it, Bill Slade, and not him, and don’t you lay yer hand on him—mind that! ’Twas you an’ your whiskey bottle done it, you lazy loafer, an’ the street is well rid o’ you. Don’t you raise your hand agin me, Bill Slade—I’m not afraid o’ the likes o’ you. I tell you ’twas you sent the poor boy’s mother to her grave—you and your whiskey bottle!”

“I—I—ain’t scared uv him!” said Tom.

“You stay right here now and don’t be foolish, and me an’ you’ll go over an’ have a cup o’ coffee.”

Just then one of the men emerged bearing in one arm the portrait of the late Mrs. Slade and in the other hand Bill Slade’s battered but trusty beer can. The portrait he laid face up on the table and set the can on it.

Perhaps it is expecting too much to assume that a city marshal would have any sense of the fitness of things, but it was an unfortunate moment to make such a mistake. As Mrs. O’Connor lifted the pail a dirty ring remained on the face of the portrait.

“D’yer see wot yer done?” shrieked Tom, rushing at the marshal. “D’yer see wot yer done?”

There was no stopping him. With a stream of profanity he rushed at the offending marshal, grabbing him by the neck, and the man’s head shook and swayed as if it were in the grip of a mad dog.

It was in vain that poor Mrs. O’Connor attempted to intercede, catching hold of the infuriated boy and calling,

“Oh, Tommy, for the dear Lord’s sake, stop and listen to me!”

Tom did not even hear.

The marshal, his face red and his eyes staring, went down into the mud of Barrel Alley and the savage, merciless pounding of his face could be heard across the way.

While the other marshals pulled Tom off his half-conscious victim, the younger contingent came down the street escorting a sauntering blue-coat, who swung his club leisurely and seemed quite master of the situation.

“He kilt him, he kilt him!” called little Sadie McCarren.

Tom, his scraggly hair matted, his face streaming, his chest heaving, and his ragged clothing bespattered, stood hoisting up his suspender, safe in the custody of the other two marshals.

“Take this here young devil around to the station,” said one of the men, “for assault and battery and interferin’ with an officer of the law in the performance of his dooty.”

“Come along, Tom,” said the policeman; “in trouble again, eh?”

“Can’t yer leave him go just this time?” pleaded Mrs. O’Connor. “He ain’t himself at all—yer kin see it.”

“Take him in,” said the rising victim, “for interferin’ with an officer of the law in the performance of dooty.”

“Where’s his folks?” the policeman asked, not unkindly.

It was then the crowd discovered that Bill Slade had disappeared.

“I’ll have to take you along,” said the officer.

Tom said never a word. He had played his part in the proceedings, and he was through.

“Couldn’t yer leave him come over jist till I make him a cup o’ coffee?” Mrs. O’Connor begged.

“They’ll give him his dinner at the station, ma’am,” the policeman answered.

Mrs. O’Connor stood there choking as Tom was led up the street, the full juvenile force of Barrel Alley thronging after him.

“Wouldn’ yer leave me pull my strap up?” he asked the policeman.

The officer released his arm, taking him by the neck instead, and the last that Mrs. O’Connor saw Tom was hauling his one rebellious strand of suspender up into place.

“Poor lad, I don’t know what’ll become uv him now,” said Mrs. O’Connor, pausing on her doorstep to speak with a neighbor.

“And them things over there an’ night comin’ on,” said her companion. “I wisht that alarm clock was took away—seems as if ’twas laughin’ at the whole thing—like.”

“’Tain’t only his bein’ arrested,” said Mrs. O’Connor, “but ther’ ain’t no hope for him at all, as I kin see. Ther’s no one can inflooence him.”

In Court, the next morning, the judge ruled out all reference to the disfigurement of Mrs. Slade’s portrait as being “incompetent and irrelevant,” and when the “assault and battery” could not be made to seem “an act done in self-defense and by reason of the imminent peril of the accused,” Tom was taken to the “jug” to spend the balance of the day and to ponder on the discovery that a “guy” has no right to “slam” a marshal just because he sets a dirty beer can on his mother’s picture.

His first enterprise after his liberation was a flank move on Schmitt’s Grocery where he stole a couple of apples and a banana, which latter he ate going along the street. These were his only luncheon. The banana skin he threw on the pavement.

In a few moments he heard footsteps behind him and, turning, saw a small boy coming along dangling the peel he had dropped. The boy was a jaunty little fellow, wearing a natty spring suit. It was, in fact, “Pee-wee” Harris, Tenderfoot, who was just starting out to cover Provision 5 of the Second Class Scout requirements, for he was going to be a Second Class Scout before camping-time, or know the reason why.

“You drop that?” he asked pleasantly.

“Ye-re, you kin have it,” said Tom cynically.

“Thanks,” said Pee-wee, and the banana peel went sailing over the fence into Temple’s lot.

“First thing you know somebody’d get a free ride on that thing,” said Pee-wee.

“Ye-re?” said Tom sneeringly.

“And if anybody got anything free near John Temple’s property——”

“Dere’s where yer said it, kiddo,” said Tom, approvingly.

“So long,” said Pee-wee, and went gaily on, walking a little, then running a little, then walking again, until Tom thought he must be crazy. Happening just at that minute to finish one of his apples (or rather one of Schmitt’s apples) he let fly the core straight for the back of Pee-wee’s head.

Then a most extraordinary thing happened. Without so much as turning round, Pee-wee raised his hand, caught the core, threw it over into the lot, and then, turning, laughed, “Thanks, good shot!”

Tom had always supposed that the back of a person’s head was a safe target, and he could not comprehend the instinct which was so alert and highly-tuned that it could work entirely independent of the eyes. But this was merely one of Pee-wee’s specialties, and his amazing progress from Tenderfoot to Star Scout is a story all by itself.

Tom hoisted himself onto the board fence and attacked the other apple. Just then along came “Sweet Caporal” demanding the core.

“Gimme it ’n’ I’ll put yer wise ter sup’m.”

Tom made the speculation.

“Wop Joe’s around de corner wid his pushcart; wot d’ye say we give him de spill?”

They were presently joined by “Slats” Corbett, and the “Two Aces,” Jim and Jake Mattenberg, and shortly thereafter Wop Joe’s little candystand was carried by assault.

The gum-drops and chocolate bars which did not find their way into the pockets of the storming host, were strewn about the street, the whistle of the peanut-roaster was broken off and Tom went scooting down the street tooting it vigorously.

This affair scattered the gang for the time, and presently Tom and “Sweet Caporal” found themselves together. They got an empty bottle from an ash wagon, broke it and distributed the pieces along Broad Street, which they selected as a sort of “mine area” for the embarrassment of auto traffic.

Tom then shuffled into the Public Library, ostensibly to read, but in fact to decorate the books according to his own theories of art, and was ejected because he giggled and scuffed his feet and interfered with the readers.

It would not be edifying to follow Tom’s shuffling footsteps that afternoon, nor to enumerate the catalogue of unseemly phrase and vicious mischief which filled the balance of the day. He wound up his career of glory by one of the most contemptible things which he had ever done. He went up at dusk and tacked his quarantine sign to the outer gate of the Bennett place.

“Gee, I hope they’re all home,” he said.

They were all at home and Mrs. Bennett, whom he hated, was busy with preparation and happy anticipations for her unsuspecting son. That the wretched plan did not succeed was due to no preparatory omission on the part of Tom, but because something happened which changed the whole face of things.