Читать книгу Pee-wee Harris: As Good As His Word - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 10

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Out of doorways and down the sordid thoroughfare the rising generation of Barrel Alley bounded and ran pell-mell.

“Come on, we got free eats!” yelled little Horace Levy.

“You bring vone home to Becky yet, yer hear?” screamed Mrs. Levy after him. “You bring vone fer baby, yer hear?”

“Come on, step on it,” said Slats Corbett, detained by traffic congestion in his doorway. “Beat it, yuze kids, give ’er de gas.” The kids arose in a body and followed him.

“Hey, bring me one, will you?” called Pee-wee. His face was dripping with perspiration, his hands were slippery, his sturdy little back ached, his head pounded from this continuous exposure to the sweltering sun. The big sheet of glass which momentarily threatened to bear him down and bury him under its million fragments seemed to magnify the sun’s burning rays and concentrate them on the little scout. No one paused to heed his plaintive call. Oh, for just one iceberg pie—just one.

Out of Murphy’s flats sped little Bruno Sorretti, straight for the seductive megaphone. Behind him straggled little Irene Gerstein, dragging a reluctant smaller sister after her.

“Deeeee—licious! Free samples!”

Pee-wee’s desperation was manifested by his heartrending appeal to Kid Lanski, who sped past. But Kid Lanski was following on general principles; he did not understand English. Nor was Rose Myrtle Flynn susceptible to the call of distress. With a hardness of heart unworthy of her sex she called, “Git one yerself, yer so smart.”

“I never said I was smart,” Pee-wee roared.

“Smarty, smarty, git one yerself,” she answered.

“GIT ONE YERSELF. YER’ SO SMART!”

Pee-wee gingerly balanced the glass with one hand and both knees while he rubbed the perspiration from his other hand and stretched and wriggled his stiff and weary fingers. Each time he heard the word deee—licious it made his mouth water and the very words, iceberg pie, struck him like a refreshing breeze.

One frantic pilgrim paused in his hurry to the cooling shrine, contemplating the tortured victim. This was little Marcus Kaplan. “How much you give me I bring you vone, yes?” he inquired.

“I’ll give you five cents,” the fettered millionaire agreed.

Marcus paused, considering. “You hold dot cless, how you get the nickal out of your pockat yet?”

“I’ll get it out, don’t you worry,” Pee-wee encouraged. “You can feed me the iceberg pie and then I’ll tell you which pocket to feel in, see?”

“I should feel in your pockat!”

On the whole, Marcus appeared to consider the investment an unwise one. He hurried on and joined the clamoring group about the auto where iceberg pies were being advertised before introduction to the local retail trade.

Soon the gorged stragglers began returning, their lips dripping. Some, like the prodigal coming into his inheritance, had run through their unexpected fortunes, or perhaps it would be nearer the fact to say that the remains of their unexpected fortunes were running down them.

Marcus, more foresighted than others, had still two whole iceberg pies intact. As the returning host passed by, the sufferer had a glimpse of the new dainty which had not yet reached the counter of Bennett’s. It was oblong and of a creamy, pink complexion, and he understood from the talk and from visible signs, that these candy shells were packed with ice cream loaded with nuts and cherries. The color of the cooling contents hidden in these luscious containers was proved to Pee-wee’s wistful gaze as a rich yellow which showed in striking contrast on the black chin of “Collie, de coon,” whose racial good humor impelled him to smile all over his face as he passed our hero by and inscribe mystic circles with his hand upon his stomach.

“If I have one dem I gib ’im ter yer,” he laughed. A vain declaration since he had no vestige of one.

And now the sensation was over, the iceberg pies which had been distributed “just to introduce them” were gone, the auto had moved on, the throng was dispersed, and there was Scout Harris alone in the blazing sun holding up the big square of glass. He was weary, very weary.

This good turn of his was all very well, but it was by no means the glorious beginning of the official career which he had permitted himself to dream about. His collection of papers had been dispersed like the crowd and were again disporting in the playful breeze, his dead rat still awaited Christian burial, the flies were holding a mass meeting on his two muskmelons.

He began to consider whether he could let the glass slowly down to a prone position on the ground, but a preliminary experiment showed him the peril which would attend such an attempt.

With the glass upright he moved along from the edge which he held till he reached a position near the center, then began letting the top edge down slowly against his form. As he did so the lower edge of the glass slipped a little on the sidewalk and, being partly on the walk and partly projecting over the curb, it swerved a trifle also. Pee-wee saw that trying to lay it down was a perilous business. It would surely be chipped, perhaps cracked; more likely its whole area would be broken. Yet on the other hand if this thing continued much longer, Pee-wee’s back would be broken.

“Gee whiz, anyway I won’t give up in the middle,” he said to himself. “Not even if they do.”

He started gingerly edging his way back to where he could get hold of a vertical edge, thus enabling himself to hold the big pane from falling either way. He found it easier thus to balance it than to let it lean against his form. It was less tiring, too. What he was most afraid of was not his own desperate and increasing fatigue, but the strong breeze which was springing up. This was refreshing, but bore possibilities of disaster.

At about the same time that the breeze sprang up Micky also sprang up and that also bore grave possibilities of disaster....