Jimmie Stops a Gang.
Jimmie apparently forgot his hunger as his chums in the big motor car
left the vicinity of the Black Bear club rooms. Casting aside the
lemon rind upon which he had been meditatively chewing while they were
present, he stepped to the window to watch their departure. Assured
that they were safely out of sight, he dashed madly down the stairs
with hair rumpled and jacket but half buttoned.
Not many minutes passed ere he was seated in one of the numerous
east-bound trains on the Long Island Railroad. His destination appeared
to be the station nearest the hangar where the boys had located their
workshop. His impatience at the frequent stops increased as the
distance lessened. He could scarcely sit still.
With his lower lids puckered up into a straight line, drawing crow's
feet about the corners of his usually wide-open, frank blue eyes, with
little lumps of hard muscle protruding from the corners of his jaws,
and a bright flush showing in his cheeks underneath the ever-present
freckles, Jimmie looked very unlike the merry lad his chums were so
well accustomed to greet. He was plainly angry.
Scarcely had the train halted at the station where the boys had
experienced their difficulty with the motorcycle earlier in the day
before Jimmie dropped off. He ran a few steps quickly, then forced
himself to a walk. Again he started to run.
"Great Frozen Hot Boxes!" murmured the lad, as he strode rapidly along
the nearly deserted street. "If Ned could see me now he'd call me to a
finish! That's slang, I know, but it goes today!"
Turning a corner, Jimmie slowed his pace a trifle until he came near
the vacant lot marking the scene of the encounter with the gang of
ruffians. Apparently controlling himself with an effort, the boy walked
along the fringe of bushes that hid the lot from passers-by. A glance
through an opening showed him that the lot was not deserted. Apparently
the same group of young fellows occupied the place. Their game of ball,
however, had been finished, and they were gathered about a rudely
constructed shelter before which blazed a small fire. In a tin bucket
simmered a stew of vegetables and meat. All were intently watching the
cook's operations.
"Howdy do, gentlemen!" Jimmie quietly said as he neared the group.
Several jumped up in amazement, for all had been too absorbed to note
the advent of the newcomer.
"Well, what do you want, now?" demanded one of the lads, addressing
Jimmie in a gruff tone of voice with a note of menace.
"I'm looking for your captain, or whatever you call him," announced
Jimmie in even tones that belied the feelings surging within his
breast. Not a hint did he give of the storm within.
"This ain't no time to be runnin' around disturbin' us!" growled the
spokesman. "You've done enough of that already!"
"That's just what I wanted to speak about, if you please," replied
Jimmie in his most suave tones. "I feel that there has been too much
interference already, and I wanted to square things!"
"Oh, you do, do you?" roughly demanded another lad of burly
proportions, shoving his way through the group now gathered in a close
knot. "Who give you any license to be runnin' around squarin' things? I
don't see any streets named after you!"
A hot retort was on Jimmie's lips, but he choked it back.
From the rear of the crowd came the voice of another lad who, following
the instincts of his kind, was ready to give advice, but slow to follow
it with actions of his own:
"Soak de guy, Pete. He's too lippy, anyhow. His whole gang's too fresh!
Dey tink dey can run us 'cause dey got money!"
"Sure, soak him!" cried another, edging forward.
"If you'll let me know which one of you is captain or leader of your
gang, I'll talk business with him!" announced Jimmie, not a particle
disturbed by the rough talk and menacing attitude of the tough
characters whom he confronted.
"I'm de captain of dis bunch!" announced the burly lad boastfully. "If
you got any squarin' to do you better take us all down to de corner and
set 'em up for de whole lot of us!"
Ignoring the suggestion that he buy refreshments for the entire gang,
Jimmie faced the lad squarely, and, although his height was much less
than that of the fellow whom he addressed, he took a step forward and
looked fearlessly into the other's eyes.
"There's been a lot of rough stuff pulled off lately," Jimmie stated
in a low tone. "Somehow, we've been unable to travel back and forth
without running foul of you or your friends. Purely by accident we have
had the misfortune to incur your displeasure and----"
"Sure, you pulled rough stuff," interrupted the self-styled captain.
"You've pulled too much of de rough stuff. You got to quit!"
"That's just what I'm here for!" snapped Jimmie, dropping the suave
manner. "I came back purposely to put a stop to it."
"Well, stop it and get out!" returned the other.
"Surest thing you know," gritted Jimmie, "I'll stop it if you've got
sand enough to give me a chance. I don't suppose I can handle the whole
gang of you, but if you're Americans you'll pick out a man to represent
you, and I'll stop him. If I do that, you are to agree that your gang
lets us alone. If he stops me, we'll pull up stakes and stay away from
this section. Is that fair?"
A general laugh went up around the group at this offer, for Jimmie was
much smaller than many of the boys, and the proposition appeared so
ridiculous that they could not at first believe he could really mean to
challenge any of them to combat.
"Sure thing," jokingly remarked one of the lads at length, "take him
on, Pete, and break him in two. We'll see fair play!"
"Is it a go?" asked Jimmie, unbuttoning his jacket.
"Why, kid," warned the one addressed as Pete, "you better run home and
tell your mother to wipe your nose. This ain't no place for a nice
little boy like you. You'll get stepped on!"
"You're not able to do that!" flashed back Jimmie, paling with anger.
"Your feet are big, but not big enough!"
"Now, don't get personal, or I'll have to hurt you!"
Jimmie's jacket and hat were on the ground. He stood erect, keeping a
watchful eye on the group gathering more closely.
"Come on, now," he offered, "I'm giving you a fair chance. If you
fellows want to be square and right, pick out one of your gang, and if
I lick him, we win. If not, you are welcome to the town. This trouble
has got to stop some time, and it might as well be now!"
"You guys started it, anyhow!" declared Pete, with an air of injured
innocence. "We ain't done nothin' to you!"
"You don't call throwing milk bottles into the road to cut our tires
anything, then? Maybe you don't call it anything to throw a bat into my
machine or to shoot at us?" queried Jimmie.
"Aw, go on!" sneered Pete, loftily. "You're too little!"
"You're a coward!" declared Jimmie, stooping as if to pick up his
jacket and hat. "You're a big bluff! You're afraid!"
"You're liar!" retorted the larger lad, adding an epithet of extreme
insult as a final rejoinder.
Like a flash Jimmie straightened from his crouching posture. Without
pausing to recover his poise he shot out a stinging blow that landed
on the jaw of the bluffing braggart with a resounding smack. It was
followed by another of equal force. Under the unexpected onslaught the
lad dropped in his tracks. A gasp went around the group.
"Now," announced Jimmie hoarsely, "I'm going to lick somebody, if it
takes in the whole gang of you. If you've got a scrapper in this bunch,
trot him out, and let's get this thing settled!"
"I'll take you on!" announced another lad, stepping forward.
"I'm trusting to you fellows to see fair play!" announced Jimmie,
watching his new antagonist closely. "Are you ready?"
"You bet!" airily replied the new champion. "Come on!"
And Jimmie did "come on." Like a whirlwind he went after the larger lad
with a vim that kept him on the defensive.
Shortly blood was trickling from an injured nose, while cut lips
indicated where Jimmie's vicious left had reached the target. From the
very first it was apparent that the larger lad had none of the better
of the argument. His very weight told against him, in that he was not
able to move about as quickly as his lighter antagonist.
Fighting rapidly but cautiously, Jimmie dodged heavy swings, always
coming back with a return that carried a sting. He was playing a game
that he had learned years before when it had been necessary for him
to protect his corner on the Bowery from the encroachments of other
newsboys. In these encounters he had learned the truth of the old
saying that "continual dropping will wear away a stone," although he
would not have put it exactly that way.
His theory was that if a telling blow were landed early in a fistic
encounter, another in the same place would accomplish more than if
planted in another spot that was not already sore. Therefore, he
endeavored to play for one spot, while his antagonist scattered his
attention to any portion of Jimmie's body that he thought might be
reached. Oftener than not Jimmie was well out of reach by the time his
opponent arrived. In this manner the smaller lad kept up a continual
rain of light jabs, waiting for an opening at the other's jaw. His
theory was soon proven correct.
Becoming enraged at his unsuccessful attempts to land a knockout, the
larger lad at length tried to rush Jimmie. This, apparently, was just
what was wanted. A sidestep, a quick forward lunge, accompanied by a
lightning-like hook, and the bully went down to stay. Jimmie's fist had
connected squarely.
Absorbed in watching the defeated lad, Jimmie had failed to observe
that Pete had regained his feet. Too late to protect himself, he
realized his danger. A terrific smash full in the face felled the Wolf,
to the cheers of some and shouts of disapproval from others.
"Cut it, Pete! Play square! Have a heart!" some shouted.
Although staggered by the unexpected and brutal attack, Jimmie lost no
time in getting to his feet. Exhausted by his recent battle, and with
no time to recover his wind, the lad was scarcely a match for his burly
foe. Employing all the tricks of which he was master, he managed to
avoid the other's rush, but was compelled to take severe punishment, in
exchange for which he offered little aggressiveness.
Directly an opening appeared, to Jimmie's delight. One straight arm
punch, delivered with his entire remaining strength, fell squarely on
the bully's face. He tripped and fell backward, landing bodily on the
kettle wherein the boys had been cooking their stew.
Several of his comrades hastened to rescue their fallen friend, while
others crowded around Jimmie to offer congratulations.
Disengaging himself from their attentions as quickly as he could,
Jimmie hastened back to the station and, without attempting to make
himself presentable, took the next train to the city. Arriving there he
made his way in a taxi to the club rooms of the Black Bear Patrol.
Well nigh exhausted from his severe struggle, the boy staggered up the
stairs, burst into the club room and announced his victory:
"Great Frozen Hot Boxes, I stopped 'em!"
Ned jumped to his feet, preparing to go to Jimmie's assistance. He was
interrupted by the whirring of the telephone bell.
"Hello! This is Nestor. What's that? We'll be right out!"
Turning a startled face to his companions, Ned cried:
"The watchman says the hangar is burning!"