AN INTERRUPTED HAIRCUT
While Sube was disposing of his insubordinate follower Fretful Mollie
had obtained momentary control over her tingling nerves and become
perfectly quiet. But as he returned to her side she gave a tremendous
lunge and struck out savagely with both hind feet, scattering the
tonsorial artists right and left.
As the clipper-man leaped to a place of safety, his clippers still in
his hand, he grabbed Sube roughly by the coat-collar.
"I caught y'u that time, y'u little rascal!" he cried angrily.
Sube squirmed uncomfortably. "What'd I do?" he muttered. "I ain't done a
_thing_!"
The clipper-man snatched off Sube's cap and gave it a throw as he
charged, "Y'u slung some'pm at that mare. I seen y'u do it myself."
Seeing that the crime was neatly fastened on Sube, Dick Bissell, who had
been keeping discreetly close to the door, now drew nearer. If anybody
was to be punished for his misdeeds he wanted to be in the front row. He
anticipated that Sube would receive a sound cuffing and perhaps a kick
or two; but he was as much surprised as Sube at the form his punishment
took. For without the slightest warning the clipper-man mowed a clean
swath from Sube's brow to his crown, and giving him a vigorous shove
towards the open door, admonished him to get out and stay out under pain
of having his eyebrows cut off.
As Sube recovered his balance he paused, and passed a bewildered hand
over his head. He resembled nothing quite so much as a youth grown
prematurely bald. And at the risk of losing his eyebrows he turned and
faced his assailant.
"Ain't you goin' to cut the rest of it?" he asked huskily.
"Didn't I tell y'u to get outa here?" growled the clipper-man with a
menacing gesture.
But Sube stood his ground. "I didn't do a thing to your ol' horse!" he
cried desperately.
"Well, one o' yer gang done it, and that's the same thing!" muttered the
clipper-man, supplementing his questionable logic by unquestionable
profanity.
At this point Dick Bissell undertook to interject some of his humor into
the situation.
"Nancy'll never love 'im if he looks like--" he began; but he never
finished the remark.
For Sube's fist struck him squarely in the mouth in a maniacal effort to
drive the cruel words back down his throat. And that was the way the
fight started.
For a time Sube appeared to be possessed of the strength of a young
Samson. He pounded his antagonist all over the place with an insane
fury, drawing blood from lip and nose, and planting several blows where
they were destined to leave a dark crescent "shiner." But judged from a
purely physical standpoint Sube was no match for Dick Bissell; and as
his mental demands for blood began to be satisfied his wonderful
offensive began to flag. He allowed himself to be drawn into the clinch
that Dick had from the first been trying to work.
An instant later the back of Sube's head bumped the floor, and he began
to stop Dick's blows with his face. Then it dawned on him for the first
time that he was actually fighting Dick Bissell. He knew of course that
he couldn't thrash Dick; he had known it for years; and he couldn't
understand how he ever happened to undertake such a monumental task. The
mere thought weakened him.
Dick must have felt Sube relax; for suddenly he seized both of Sube's
wrists and pinioned his arms across his breast.
"You're--a fine--lookin' thing!" he panted. "Nancy oughta--see y'u NOW!"
Dick had unconsciously touched the magic spring that loosed the maniac,
and Sube flung him aside as if he had been a new-born babe. The two boys
gained their feet at almost the same instant. Then Sube launched an
attack on the larger boy that far surpassed in fury his initial charge.
He hit, he scratched, he bit, and kicked; and again he exhausted his
strength and went under in a clinch. And this time he couldn't come
back. Dick hammered him roundly, and when he could spare the breath
taunted him unfeelingly about Nancy, and threatened to lick him to a
frazzle right before her loving eyes.
But Sube was too far gone to respond. He was very near that
blissful country which prize-fighters call "Out."
The stablemen enjoyed the fight immensely. And the result was quite to
their liking. Dick Bissell was their kind. They wanted him to win even
if he was fighting a boy scarcely half his size. But they enjoyed the
"little feller's bu'st o' speed" and taking their cue from Dick,
interjected a few taunts from the sidelines about what Nancy would think
of him if he got licked.
Sube had plenty of friends at the ringside, but they dared not interfere
because of what might happen to them when Dick Bissell caught them
alone. And doubtless if they had taken a hand the stablemen would have
driven them off.
But there was one friend who did not falter. He was a little late in
reaching the place of battle, but when he came, he came like a
thunderbolt. He struck Dick amidships with the full force of his
seventy pounds, knocking the astonished boy halfway across the barn.
Then with a show of flashing teeth and a few great guttural oaths he
cleared the barn of human incumbrances, and then--he went humbly to his
master craving indulgence for having again been guilty of disobedience.
Sube struggled to his feet, groggily murmuring, "Good boy, Sport." And
with a boy's first instinct on emerging from a fight began to hunt for
his cap. Sport quickly found it and brought it. Then Sube noticed for
the first time that he was alone, and that the big barn door was closed.
But he had no idea that it had been barred in the interest of public
policy to keep what the stablemen regarded as a mad dog from running at
large.
The back door was open. And towards it he staggered, bleeding and
disheveled. He made his way into the clump of willows, where he lay for
a time and rested while Sport licked affectionately at his hand whenever
it came near enough for his rosy tongue to reach.
As he took a circuitous route homeward a little later he became
conscious of a dull ache in his ear. Then he discovered that his lip was
swollen. In another moment he became painfully aware that something had
happened to one of his cheeks. Next a skinned knuckle attracted his
attention.
He considered these injuries too valuable to be wasted, and at once
invented a new game to make use of them. He pretended that he was a
wounded soldier returning from the wars, and gave himself up to such
limps and groans as seemed to fit the fancy. He dragged himself up to
the back door of his home, and after satisfying himself that the kitchen
was empty, fell prostrate on the threshold, gasping:
"Water!--Water!--I must rinse these awful wounds!"
With an exaggerated effort he pulled himself to his feet and reeled
across the kitchen, only to fall in an imaginary swoon at the foot of
the back stairs. But hearing footsteps he revived sufficiently to crawl
upstairs dragging a bullet-pierced leg lifelessly behind.
He had reached the room occupied jointly by himself and his brother
Henry, where he had indulged in several additional swoons (in the
performance of which he had now become quite an expert) when he was
suddenly reminded of the accident to his clothes. He took them off and
holding them at arm's length, sniffed at them judicially. Then he
pronounced them guilty, and dropped them on the floor pending sentence.
He at once began to put on his best suit, but before he had finished he
heard Henry coming. He kicked the offending garments under the bed and
stepped into the hallway, pulling on his jacket as he went. He
intercepted his brother at the head of the stairs.
"Hey, Cathead!" he called affably, addressing Henry by his nickname.
"Know some'pm?"
"What?" grunted Cathead, who was fourteen, studiously inclined, and
suspicious of anything Sube knew and he didn't, because it was usually
inaccurate and often led into mischief.
"There's a new batch of cookies down in the pantry!"
Cathead's interest was aroused, but he tried to conceal it. "What you
all dressed up for?" he demanded.
Sube had hoped to preclude any such inquiry, and made something of a
mess of his reply. "Why--now--now, I'm--I'm goin' somewheres," he
stammered.
"Where?"
"Never you mind where!" cried Sube with affected gayety. "Don't you
wish't you knew! But let's go and get a cookie."
Cathead had half turned to go when he stopped abruptly and began to look
around him. "Whew!" he exclaimed. "What in the dickens smells so?"
"It does smell kind o' funny, don't it?" Sube agreed.
"Funny? I should say it is funny! What is it?"
"I guess the air must be a little bad," mumbled Sube.
"A little? Say! It's awful in here!"
"But you ought to smell it out in the back yard," suggested Sube. "It's
a lot worse out there!"
With a disdainful grimace Cathead turned towards the stairs. "You said
some'pm about cookies," he remembered. "Lead me to 'em."
"They're in the pantry," said Sube as he started to follow Cathead down
the stairs. But when he was halfway down he turned back. "Dern the
luck!" he exclaimed with affected disgust. "I forgot some'pm. Got to go
back. Now don't eat 'em all up before I get there!"