without animosity, showed them how it worked.
"Let me try her," urged Johnnie.
But Bobby would not until he had asked his mother, for permission to
shoot had been obtained only at expense of a very solemn promise.
"Fraidy!" jeered Johnnie, "tied to his mammy's apron-strings!"
Bobby flushed deeply, but stood his ground.
"It's my gun," he pointed out again. "If you don't like my yard, you
needn't come into it."
"Oh, all right, we don't want to stay in your old yard," replied
Johnnie. "Come on, kids."
"Johnnie, come back here," commanded the girl sharply. "You ought to be
ashamed of yourself! He's perfectly right! Suppose one of us should get
shot!"
"I'll get papa to shoot with us, if he will," promised Bobby.
"Johnny, you come back here!" ordered the girl in more peremptory tones.
"You come back or--or--_I'll sit on your head again!_"
Johnny came back, entirely good-natured, his attractive blue eyes
glancing here and there in restless activity.
"Oh, all right," said he. "Let's play robbers and policemen."
"We've left Carrie over the fence," insisted the girl.
"Bother Carrie! Why don't she climb?"
"You come over with us," the girl suggested to Bobby. "You're Bobby
Orde, of course, we know. I'm May Fowler. I live in the big square house
over that way. The boy with the yellow hair is Johnny English. The other
one is Morton Drake. Come on."
"Where is it?" asked Bobby.
"Just over the fence. That's where the Englishes live. Haven't you been
there yet?"
"No," said Bobby.
He leaned his rifle in the barn and followed the disappearing trio. His
doubt as to how the smooth board fence was to be surmounted was soon
resolved. The new-comers evidently knew all the ins and outs. In the
very end of the long woodshed stood a chicken-feed bin. By scrambling to
the top of this, it was just possible to squeeze between the edge of the
roof and the top of the fence. Once there, one had the choice of
descending to the other side or climbing to the shed roof.
The expedition at present led to the other side. Here was no necessity
of dangling, for the two-by-fours running between the posts offered a
graduated descent. Bobby found himself in the back yard of a tall house
that occupied nearly the entire width of the lot. It was a very
impressive cream-brick house. A cement walk led around it from the
front. There were no stables, no clothes-lines, no pumps, nothing to
indicate the kitchen end of a residence. The swift curve of a grassed
terrace dropped from the house-level to that on which Bobby stood. Four
large apple trees, mathematically spaced, would furnish shade in summer.
That the shade was utilized was proved by the presence of a number of
settees, iron chairs and a rustic table or so.
"There's Carrie!" cried May Fowler. "Why didn't you come on over? This
is Bobby Orde who lives over there. This is Caroline English."
"We're going to play robber and policeman," announced Johnny English,
cheerfully.
"All right," said Carrie.
She sat down behind one of those rustic tables.
"She's police sergeant," confided Morton Drake to Bobby. "She's always
police sergeant because she doesn't like to get her clothes dirty."
"Here come the rest! Goody!" cried the alert Johnny as four more
children came racing around the corner of the house.
Robber and policemen was a game absurd in its simplicity. The policemen
pursued the robbers who fled within the specified limits of the
Englishes' yard. When an officer caught a malefactor, he attempted to
bring his prize before the police sergeant. The robber was privileged to
resist. Assistance from the other policemen and rescues by the other
robbers were permitted. That was all there was to it. The beautiful
result was a series of free fights.
Bobby, as a new-comer, was made a robber. So were Grace Jones, Morton
and Walter. The nature of the game demanded that the oldest should be
policeman, otherwise arrests might be disgracefully unavailing.
At a signal from Carrie the robbers scurried away. At another the
sleuths set out on the trail. Each policeman elected a robber as his
especial prey. Bobby ran rapidly around the front of the house, dodged
past the front steps and paused. Behind him he heard stealthy footsteps
approaching the corner of the house. Instantly he ducked forward around
the other corner and ran plump into the arms of Johnny English.
That youngster immediately grappled him.
Johnny was no bigger than Bobby, but he was practised at scuffles and
his body was harder and firmer knit. Bobby tugged manfully, but almost
before he knew it he was upset and hit the ground with a disconcerting
whack. Of course, he continued to struggle, and the two, fiercely
locked, whirled over and over through the leaves, but in a humiliatingly
brief period Johnny had twisted him on his back and was sitting on his
chest.
"There, I told you I could lick you!" he cried triumphantly.
"Let me up! Let me up, I tell you!" roared Bobby, kicking his legs and
threshing his arms in a vain effort to budge the weight across his body.
Johnny looked at him curiously.
"Why! You ain't _mad_, are you!" He shrieked with the joy of the
discovery. "Oh, kids! Come here and see him! He's getting mad!"
Bobby's eyes filled with tears of rage. And then he saw quite plainly
the top of a sand-hill and the village lying below and the blue of the
River far distant. And he heard Mr. Kincaid's voice.
"But, sonny, you can always be a sportsman, whatever you do," the voice
said, "and a sportsman does things because he likes them, Bobby, for no
other reason--not for money, nor to become famous, nor even to win----"
He choked back his rage and forced a grin to his lips--very much the
same sort that he had once accomplished when he "jumped up and laughed"
at his mother's spanking, simply because he had been told to do that
whenever he was hurt.
"I'm not mad," he disclaimed and heaved so mighty a heave that Johnny,
being unprepared by reason of shouting to the others, was tumbled off
one side. Instantly Bobby jumped to his feet and scudded away.
He was captured eventually--so were the others--but only after fierce
struggles. Even did a policeman catch and hold a robber, to drag the
latter to jail was no easy problem. For if he summoned the help of a
brother officer that left at large an unattached robber who would create
diversions and attempt rescues. At times all eight were piled in a
breathless, tugging, rolling mass, while Carrie, behind her rustic
table, looked on serenely lest some of the simple rules of the game be
violated. In fact Carrie was just as severe in anticipation of possible
infractions, as over the infractions themselves, which, perhaps, goes
far to explain Carrie.
Bobby returned home at lunch time to be received with horror by Mrs.
Orde.
"You're a sight!" she cried. "_Where_ have you been, and _what_ have you
been doing? I never saw anything like you! And look at those holes in
your stockings."
"I've been playing robber 'n policeman with Johnny English and Carter
Irvine and all the kids," explained Bobby blissfully.
After lunch Mr. Orde kissed his son good-bye.
"Going up in the woods for a week, sonny," said he.
"Papa," asked Bobby holding tight to the man's hand, "can I have the
kids shoot with my rifle?"
"Not any!" cried Mr. Orde emphatically. "Not until I get back. Then
maybe we'll have a shooting-match and invite all hands."
He was slipping on his overcoat as he spoke.
"Which of the boys do you like best?" he asked casually.
"I don't know," replied Bobby after an instant's thought. "Carter
Irvine's got an air-gun: I like him. And Johny English is all right,
too. I wish I were as strong as Johnny English," he ended with a sigh.
Mr. Orde paused in reaching for his valise.
"Can he take you down?" he asked shrewdly.
"Yes, sir!" replied Bobby with a vivid flush.
"All right, you be a good boy, and when I get back I'll show you a few
tricks to fool Mr. Johnny," Mr. Orde chuckled. "There's a lot in knowing
how."
XIV
THE SHOOTING CLUB
When Bobby proposed again that his father oversee general shoots in the
back yard, the latter demurred.
"Haven't any time," said he. "And you youngsters certainly can't be
turned loose with two guns alone. I'll tell you: you organize your club,
and have a regular time to shoot every week. I'll appoint Martin Chief
Inspector; but it must be distinctly understood that there is to be no
shooting unless he's here."
Martin was the "hired man" about Grandpa Orde's place.
The children fell on the idea with alacrity, and at once adjourned to
Bobby's room. Carter Irvine suggested formal organization.
"Somebody's got to make targets; and somebody's got to buy cartridges
and collect the money for them; and somebody's got to buy prizes--we got
to have prizes--and somebody's got to keep the scores."
After much talk they elected officers to perform these duties; and
formulated curious but practical by-laws. Bobby was elected secretary
and treasurer; and he has to-day a copy of them written in his own
boyish unformed hand. Among other things they provided that "any one
pointing a gun, accidentally or otherwise, at anybody else or Duke, is
fined one cent." The entire club went into a committee of the whole,
marched down town in a body and pestered a number of store-keepers.
Finally it purchased a silver bangle a little larger than a ten-cent
piece, had it hung from a bar pin, and inscribed "First Prize." The
second prize, following Mrs. Orde's practical suggestion, was a bright
ribbon. Winners were privileged to wear these until defeated. The shoots
were conducted with great ceremony. Each took a single chance in turn
until five rounds apiece had been expended. In a loud voice the scorer
announced the results, and the name of the next on the list. The
shooting was done from a dead rest over the saw-horse, and at about
fifteen yards. Martin sat by on the bridge-approach to the barn, smoking
a very short and very black clay pipe upside down. He rarely said
anything; but his twinkling eyes never for a moment left the excited
group. Martin was reliable. Occasionally he was called upon to referee
some particularly close decision--as to whether a certain bullet-hole
could be said to have cut the edge of the black or not--and his
decisions were never questioned.
The shoots were taken very seriously. He who won the first or second
prize wore it proudly. Scores, individual shots, good or bad luck,
distracting influences were all discussed with the greatest interest.
Grandpa Orde, happening home early one day, watched the performance with
great enjoyment, his hands behind him underneath the flapping linen
duster, his eyes twinkling, his jaws working slowly. At the time he made
no comments; but next shoot day he was punctually on hand, carrying a
small paper parcel.
"Here's another prize," said he.
They opened it eagerly. It contained a large round leather disk to which
a safety pin had been sewn.
"That's for the one who makes the worst score," explained Grandpa Orde
chuckling.
Thenceforth the poor shots had an interest. If they could not hope to
compete with Bobby and Carter Irvine, at least they could try not to
stand at the bottom of the list. A new by-law was adopted, making
compulsory the conspicuous wearing of the leather medal.
As has been hinted, the supremacy generally lay between Bobby and
Carter. Johnny occasionally carried off all honours by a most brilliant
score; but the week following he was likely to escape the leather medal
only by the narrowest margin. The latter decoration was shared by his
sister and Grace Jones. Caroline English disliked firearms; and took
part in the contest only because she did not care to be left out. Both
she and Grace held the weapon directly in front of them, the two hands
clasped tight at the same point just behind the trigger-guard. May
Fowler, Walter and Morton "furnished packing," as Morton said, between
the leaders and the losers.
In this manner the children came to a thorough respect for the muzzle of
a gun; and a deep pride in handling a weapon in a safe and sportsmanlike
manner. By the time the snow and cold weather put a stop to the
shooting, each child would have been mortified and ashamed beyond words
to have been caught doing anything "like a greenhorn."
XV
THE UPPER ROOMS
On Mr. Orde's return from the woods, he was promptly called upon to
redeem his promise. He therefore, showed Bobby a few of the simpler
wrestler's tricks which Bobby adopted and brooded over in his manner.
The first game of robber and policeman thereafter, he tried one on
Johnny, but bungled it and got sat on harder than ever. Bobby's trouble
in the practice of such matters arose from the fact that he was too
analytical. Before an idea could become part of his make-up, he had to
revolve it over in his mind, examining it from all sides, understanding
the relations of its component parts, making the mechanism revolve
slowly, as it were, in order to comprehend all its correlations. This
analytical thought naturally made him, to a certain degree,
self-conscious in his movements. It destroyed the instinctive,
superconscious accuracy valuable in all games of skill, but absolutely
necessary to such things as skating, boxing, wrestling, wing-shooting,
tennis and the like. Self-consciousness in such cases means awkwardness.
Bobby, in learning a new thing, was awkward. But he possessed a
wonderful persistence. In time he would think all around a thing. In
more time he would have practised it sufficiently to have lost sight of
the carefully considered "reason why" for each move. Thus the final,
though delayed, result was apt to be more consistent performance than
Johnny's brilliantly instinctive achievements.
For example, Bobby tried again and again to attain the quick twisting
heave necessary to the common "grape-vine." At no time did he achieve
more than partial success. But in his numerous attempts he, without
knowing it, taught Johnny. That quick-witted youth caught the
possibilities and at his first attempt sprawled Bobby. In fact, by the
time Bobby had even a fair command of the three or four falls shown him
by his father, Johnny was skilful in them all and could catch Bobby with
them twice as often as Bobby could catch him. This kept Bobby
humble-minded, and, as it in no way discouraged him from keeping at it,
was a good thing for him. Here is perhaps as good a place as any to
remark parenthetically that while the friends scuffled and wrestled
constantly, Johnny never got to be much better than he became in the
first three weeks, while Bobby, in later years, was the middle-weight
champion of his class at college.
The autumn passed, and colder weather set in. Out of doors was available
only for the activities of life. As long as energy was burnt with some
lavishness, all was well, but when the first enthusiasm had ebbed, Jack
Frost began to nip shrewdly. Then the children went within doors. They
divided their favours almost equally between the third stories of the
Orde and English homes.
The Englishes' third story had never been finished. Bare walls, bare
floors, fresh varnished wood-work and the steam radiators constituted
the whole equipment.
This very openness of space, however, proved an irresistible attraction
to the children. Gradually articles of their amusement became installed,
until the latter end of that third story was an official "play room."
Shelves--made by Johnny--held books and miscellaneous junk; toys of
various sorts were scattered about; against the wall was screwed a noisy
chest-weight, which nobody disturbed; near the window stood a
scroll-saw worked by foot-power. Nobody bothered with that either, for
the simple reason that all the saw blades were broken and the novelty
had worn off. Bobby would have liked to experiment with it, but of
course he did not feel like suggesting repairs.
But the Upper Rooms were full of echoes and noises when one clumped on
the bare floor, and space with nothing to knock over when one scuffled,
and the air was always cold enough so one could see his breath.
Therefore the Upper Rooms were popular, but in a different manner and
for different purposes than Bobby's warmed and furnished chamber.
Here the rougher, noisier romping took place, and here was finally
brought to adjustment the smouldering rivalry between the two small
boys.
XVI
THE THIRD STORY
Bobby's room was also in the third story and up among the gables. It
slanted here, it slanted there, steeply or gradually according to the
demands of the roof outside. There May, Johnny and Martin curled up on
the western window seat; Bobby and Carter Irvine sat on the floor;
Caroline drew up a straight-back chair. Then while the twilight lasted
they "talked," in children's aimless fashion, about everything, anything
or nothing.
By and by somebody yawned.
"My, it's getting dark. Light up, Johnny."
Then could be seen the prize attraction of the room--the deal table on
which one could use ink, mucilage, scissors and other dangerous weapons.
Here was screwed the toy printing press. Bobby, after a few further
attempts to adopt the regulation fonts of type to its chase, had rather
lost interest in it, but his new companions revived it. He showed them
exactly how to get clear and good impressions, and in the explanation
proved a most comfortable glow over finding something at last in which
he was distinctly and indisputably superior. All had to have cards
printed. Each bought his own and set up his own type; Bobby made
adjustments, and then again each was privileged to make his own
impressions.
Johnny English, however, was keenly alive to the commercial aspects of
the case. One day he appeared in triumph bearing an order from Mr.
Ellison's wholesale house. It read quite simply: "Use Star Stove
Polish," a legend well within the possibilities of the little press.
"Got an order for a thousand of 'em!" cried Johnny triumphantly. "We're
to print them and distribute them. We get four dollars for it!"
Four dollars was untold wealth, though, counting the distribution, Mr.
Ellison's firm stood to gain on regular rates--provided it really cared
thus to advertise Star Stove Polish. To active youngsters the wandering
up one street and down another, leaving cards at every house, handing
cards to every passer-by, was a huge lark. When the four dollars were
paid, it seemed almost like getting a Christmas present out of season.
Johnny's imagination was fired.
"There's lots of printing we might get," said he. "Look at all the
envelopes my papa uses, and there's his letter-heads, and
bill-heads--and lots else. But we can't do it on that thing! It takes
different kinds of type."
Thereupon Bobby got out his catalogues and told them of the second-hand
self-inker to be had for twenty-five dollars, Enthusiasm burned at fever
heat for about three days, then the sickening realization that the total
capital of _Orde & English, Job Printers_--including the four
dollars--was just seven-thirty pricked that bright dream. The approach
of Christmas inspired Johnny with a new idea. He and Bobby risked a
half-dollar of the capital in cards embossed with holly wreaths. On
these they printed "_Merry Christmas, From ---- to ----._" These had an
encouraging sale among immediate relatives.
But in spite of these gratifying commercial ventures, Bobby's disgust
grew. It might make marks on paper; it might earn money, but it would
not take full-sized type, it would not print more than two lines. By
these same tokens it was not a printing press, but a toy; not the real
thing, but an imitation, and Bobby was outgrowing imitations. Finally he
made a definite statement of principle.
"I'm not going to use her any more," said he with decision, "I'm sick of
the old thing."
"But I've just got an order for fifty cards from Mrs. Fowler!"
expostulated Johnny.
"Then go on, do them," replied Bobby. "I won't."
He retired to the corner, leaving Johnny wrathful. There for the
thousandth time he pored over the pages of the catalogue showing the
beautiful 5x7 self-inking press.
XVII
"SLIDING DOWN HILL"
One morning Bobby awoke before daylight. It might have been the middle
of the night except that, far down in the still house, he heard a
muffled scrape and clank as Martin set the furnace in order for the day.
Bobby knew six o'clock by these dull, distant, comfortable sounds. The
air in the room was very frosty and Bobby's nose was as cold as a dog's;
but underneath the warm double blanket and the eider-down quilted
comforter Bobby had made himself a warm nest. In this he curled in a
tight little ball. Not for worlds would he have stretched his legs down
into shivery regions, and though he was not drowsy and did not care to
sleep, not for worlds would he have left his lair before the radiator
had warmed.
So he lay there waiting and watching where the window ought to be for
the first signs of daylight. Bobby liked to amuse himself trying to
define just when the window became visible. He never could. So this
morning, some time, no time, Bobby saw a dull gray rectangle where
darkness had been, and knew that day had arrived. Over in the corner the
radiator was singing softly with the first steam. Slowly the reluctant
daylight filtered in, showing in dim outline the familiar objects in the
room.
Bobby was just dozing when an unexpected sound from outside brought him
wide awake. He sat up in bed the better to hear. Far in the distance,
but momently nearing, rang a faint jingle of bells. At the same moment
there began a methodical _scrape, scrape, scrape_ immediately outside
the house.
Without a thought of the cold air of the room, nor the warm flannel
dressing gown, nor the knit bedroom socks, Bobby leaped out and pattered
to the window. This was covered thick with frost crystals, but Bobby
breathed on them, and rubbed them with the heel of his palm, and so
acquired a sight-hole.
"Snow!" he murmured ecstatically to himself.
The outer world was very still and bathed in a cold half-light. Over
everything lay a thick covering of white. The lawn, the sidewalks, the
street, the roofs of houses were hidden by it; the top of the fence was
outlined with it; great mantles draped the post tops and the fans of the
fir tree; every branch and twig of every tree bore its burden; Martin,
wielding a very broad wooden shovel, was engaged in clearing a way to
the front gate. Just as Bobby looked out, the milkman, his vehicle on
runners and his team decorated with the strings of bells that had
aroused the little boy, drove up, dropped his hitch-weight and with the
milkman's peculiar rapid gait, trotted around to the back door. The
breath of Martin and the milkman and his two horses ascended in the
still air like steam. Bobby heard the loud shrieking of the snow as it
was trodden, and knew that it must be very cold.
He dressed and went down stairs. Amanda, with her head tied in a duster,
was putting things to rights. Bobby could find none of his snow clothes
and Amanda was unable or unwilling to help him, so to his disappointment
he could not join Martin. However, he opened the front door and peeked
at the cold-looking thermometer.
"My," said he to Amanda, scurrying back to the new-lighted fire, "it's
only four above!"
This information he proffered with an air of pride to each member of
the family as he or she appeared. Bobby took a personal satisfaction in
the coldness of the weather, as though he had ordered it himself.
In the meantime he watched Martin from the window. Shortly the municipal
snow-plow passed, throwing the snow to right and left, its one horse
plodding patiently along the sidewalk, its driver humped over, smoking
his pipe. One of Bobby's ambitions used to be to drive the municipal
snow-plow when he grew up.