THE SNOW-BALL FIGHT.
As soon as Dubsy Perkins felt all right again, Jack and he left Bill
French’s and went home to their dinners. Jack lived alone with his
mother; he was her only child. Her husband had been killed in the Civil
War ten years before, and Jack was all she had in the world to care for
and be proud of except the memory of Jack’s father’s gallant services
as a soldier, which she was never tired of talking about to Jack. His
name had been John Hall, just as Jack’s was, and he had fallen at
the head of the regiment of which he was Colonel, in one of the last
battles of the war, when Jack was a mere baby.
Back of Colonel John Hall was a long line of Halls, running very nearly
into Mayflower times, a good many of them John Halls or, as those who
knew them best called them, Jack Halls, though John is a good name for
any boy or man to be content with and not to wish to change. They were
a hardy, thorough-going set, these Halls, Massachusetts folk who in
Colonial times, when the days were gone by for shooting Indians, tilled
their farms and made sure that their liberties were not interfered with
by King James or King William or King George. When this was impossible
without taking arms, they were equal to the occasion. Israel Hall,
Jack’s great-great-grandfather, was one of the raw recruits composing
the Continental Army over which General Washington assumed command
under the famous old elm at Cambridge. He followed his commander
through thick and thin, became a sergeant, then a captain, was wounded,
but got well in time to be one of those who made the memorable passage
of the Delaware when our army, reduced to a forlorn band of four
thousand, fell upon the Hessians at Trenton, routed them, and plucked
up spirit and hope once more. He was shot dead, however, at the battle
of Brandywine, and, as will be the case with many brave fellows so long
as wars last, left a wife and some wee bits of children to get along as
best they could.
It would take too long to give an account of the lives of Jack’s
ancestors in detail, but you may be interested to learn something of
the career of Israel Hall’s eldest son,――also named John,――who, having
to make his own way in the world, left the family farm and came to
Salem town in search of something to do. Now, at that time Salem was a
famous commercial port, little as one would imagine it to-day. Forty
years later its prestige was usurped and overshadowed by its near
neighbor, Boston, but from 1770 until 1820 the maritime supremacy of
Salem was unquestioned. Prior to the Revolution, the inhabitants of
the town had been noted for their commercial energy, and when war was
declared they fitted out their trading vessels with guns, and built
others to the number of over one hundred, which made great havoc among
the enemy’s commerce in the English Channel and the Bay of Biscay,
so that the rates of insurance went up amazingly among the British
underwriters. The patriotism and enterprise of the old Salem merchants
is a glowing chapter in the history of our country.
But as soon as there was no more fighting to be done, the merchants
turned their fleet of privateers into trading-vessels again, and as
the vessels were too large for mere coasters, sent them out laden with
Spanish dollars to every nook and corner of the Oriental world,――to
Calcutta and Madagascar, and Batavia and Java, and the Celebes, and
all the chain of islands in the Indian Archipelago which you have read
about in your geographies. There the silver freight was exchanged for
pepper, spices, gums, coffee, or other Eastern products, with which
the captains would either return or would bear away to some European
port, like Marseilles, where part of the cargo was sold at a profit,
and its place supplied by wines and silk to be brought home. It was
an adventurous, exciting life for those who sailed; and meanwhile the
owners sat in their counting-houses casting up figures and waiting
for their vessels to arrive. It was often two and even three years
that they had to wait, but the ships came back at last, freighted with
merchandise, which their owners sold to their fellow townspeople at a
snug profit. Or, if by chance the ships were lost and never returned,
the underwriters reimbursed the merchants so that they were able to buy
new ones.
It was into the counting-house of one of these merchants that Jack’s
great-grandfather, John Hall, chanced to stray one morning in search of
employment. Probably the head of the firm liked the looks of the boy
and divined that he would make a sterling sailor; at all events he took
him into his service and sent him on a long voyage in one of his ships,
which turned out very successfully for the merchant, and for John Hall
too, inasmuch as everybody had a pleasant word to say in his behalf.
From this time forward his life was one of marvelous experiences for
many years to come. One thing leads to another when a young man is
efficient. Before he was nineteen John Hall was a mate, and on his
twenty-first birthday he found himself in command of a three hundred
ton ship, which was a large one for those days. If it were his career
I was narrating, it would be easy to keep you awake many hours with
thrilling tales of what happened to him. He fought with pirates, and
had hair-breadth adventures with savage tribes, was twice shipwrecked,
and barely escaped being eaten by cannibals, only to be imprisoned in
a South American dungeon instead. But in the end he passed safely
through his perils, and settled down in Salem for the rest of his days
with seventy-five thousand dollars in hard cash, which was quite as
much as a million is now.
Very possibly some of you may be thinking that you would like to have
lived when a career similar to that of Jack’s great-grandfather was
a natural one for an ambitious boy to follow. But though the glamour
of such adventures as his does make the blood even of those of us
who are grown up tingle as we read, it will not do to shut our eyes
to the truth. We see only the glory and forget the hardships. We
forget, too,――and their many virtues make us forget,――that resolute,
noble fellows as were the men whose enterprise and pluck built up
fortunes for themselves while supplying their country, starved and
draggled by the Revolution, with the necessities and even the luxuries
of life, these old merchant captains and their crews were rough,
ignorant people compared with what some of your fathers are to-day.
They had but little knowledge except of a practical kind acquired by
bitter experience; their one absorbing interest was the accumulation
of money, and, let us say it under our breaths, the standards of
morality by which they did business were not the highest. How could
it be otherwise? The population of the strip of seaboard States which
then composed our country had to begin existence as a nation bankrupt,
and chiefly dependent for its wants on the products of other lands.
Our great-grandfathers were down to hard pan, as the saying is, and
life meant for them a struggle for the means of existence unrelieved
by any but the most homely pleasures and tastes. There were no mills
and factories then to compete with the manufactories of Europe, no
great west with its fields of waving grain and developed mines of gold
and coal and iron, no cotton gin, no splendid libraries and broad
institutions of learning, no railroads, no telegraph. All these were
yet to come, and it is to such men as John Hall that we are indebted
for having laid the foundations of that prosperity which affords to
their descendants opportunities for usefulness and culture such as our
forefathers never dreamed of. Let us admire their courage, grit, and
perseverance; let us applaud their successes and recognize the sterling
virtues by which they won them, but their lot should no more arouse
our envy than should that of those later pioneers in the struggle of
reclaiming our west from the forest and the savage, inspired by whose
adventures as scouts and trappers so many boys have run away from home
and been very sorry afterwards.
We left Jack going home to his dinner, for which he did not feel very
hungry at first. But a fine piece of beefsteak with potatoes and
macaroni, followed by cold rice pudding with bits of cinnamon in it,
of which Jack was especially fond, brought his appetite back again,
so that when he had finished his second plate of pudding, cleaning
the plate with his spoon until it shone, the thought occurred to him
that he would have a third help; but the well-known “Ehu――ehu――ehu”
resounding from the street told him that the fellows were beginning to
collect again, and he started up.
Jack dined in the middle of the day, and his mother had her dinner
at night; but Mrs. Hall made a point of taking her lunch at the same
hour as Jack dined, and after he had finished eating she always tried
to beguile him into sitting still for a while, for he had a tendency,
when anything interesting was in prospect outdoors, to scurry through
his meals and leave the table with his mouth full the instant the last
course had been served. Sometimes he would bolt from his chair as soon
as he had finished his meat, crying,――merely by way of explanation for
his hasty departure,――as he seized his cap and just prior to slamming
the front door, “Don’t want any pudding.” On such occasions his mother
did not always have the heart to detain him.
But this day he dined alone and there was no one to put a check on
his movements, for Mrs. Hall had been called away out of town to see
an old friend who was sick, and would not be back until after Jack’s
bed hour. Deeply as he loved his mother and fond as he was of having
her with him, Jack felt a certain pride in being his own master for
once. As an indemnity for being left alone for the day, he had obtained
permission to order whatever he liked for tea, and to have whomever he
chose among the boys to share it with him. He had already exercised
the second privilege by inviting Dubsy Perkins, Bill French, and Harry
Dale, another of his friends, and it was now necessary to decide upon
the viands before he went out again. This was no easy task, as he had a
number of dainties in mind which ranked very evenly in his estimation.
He felt pretty certain as to one, however. “We’ll have cream cakes,
Hannah,” he said with decision to the maid.
“Very well, Master Jack, I’ll get six; that’ll be one and a half
apiece.”
“How much are _éclairs_?” he asked, presently.
“I don’t know, Master Jack. Your mamma, when she has company, buys
those at the confectioner’s.”
“They’re bully,” he said. “I like the chocolate ones best. I guess,
though, the fellows would rather have cream cakes.”
“Cook has a Washington pie ready.”
“That’s hunky! Mother said that we could have quince jam and raspberry
jam, and――and――I know what we’ll have,” he cried with a wave of his
arm,――“waffles.”
“I don’t know as the cook has a waffle-iron, Master Jack,” answered
Hannah, despondently.
Jack looked downcast a moment. “We had them at Bill French’s, you eat
them with butter and nutmeg,” he said, with a sigh.
“Cook makes those puff cakes very nicely,” said Hannah, who had been
thinking.
Jack clapped his hands. “They’ll do first-rate,” he said. “I guess
that’ll be enough, with the spread bread and butter and some muffins;
don’t you, Hannah?”
“Goodness sakes! yes, Master Jack. If you’re not all sick to-morrow, I
shall be very much mistaken.”
At the mention of sickness Jack was pensive a moment. Then he felt
in his pocket and produced one of the pieces of rattan. “See there,
Hannah, that’s my blood,” he exclaimed.
“Your blood! Mercy on us, what does the child mean?” she added, as she
examined the charred stick.
“It’s dried blood out of my lungs.”
Hannah put the rattan up to her nose, then gave a start. “You don’t
mean to tell me, Master Jack, that you’ve been smoking?”
“What if I have?”
“What will your mamma say?”
“I guess she won’t mind.”
Jack knew that this last statement was not true, but as he intended to
make a clean breast of it to his mother, he felt justified in assuming
a bold front before Hannah.
Hannah shook her head prophetically. “It’s that Bill French, I’ll be
bound; he’s always getting you into some sort of mischief. Hadn’t you
anything better to do than go smoking that nasty stick?”
“I only smoked a little piece,” Jack answered. “Besides, it isn’t a
stick, it’s rattan.”
“I’d just like to get my hand on that Bill French, that’s all,” said
Hannah. “Blood out of your lungs, too! We’ll have you sick abed next,
and your mamma crying her eyes out.”
Jack, as he went out of the house, was conscious that he had not
derived much consolation from Hannah, whose view seemed to confirm the
fearful testimony already in his possession. But on closing the front
door his attention was at once absorbed by what was going on outside.
Some half-dozen boys, including Dubsy Perkins, Bill French, and Harry
Dale, were engaged in building a huge dam. It had grown milder since
morning and was melting fast. Underneath the piles of snow on either
side of the street, the water was beginning to flow rapidly along the
gutters down hill. The boys had selected a spot a hundred yards or so
below Jack’s house, across the way, and had formed a basin by digging
up the snow until they came to the paving. The curbstone constituted
one bank, and the other, or rather the whole remaining bulwark of the
dam, was made of snow piled up and mashed with shovels until it became
firm. While constructing this they had made a temporary dam a few feet
further up, to catch the water; but just as Jack joined them Dubsy cut
a big hole in it, and the accumulated torrent poured with a rush into
the large reservoir. When the smaller dam had emptied itself, they
closed it up again in order to strengthen the resistance of the main
one.
Most of the boys were armed with shovels obtained from home, and they
worked diligently as beavers, building the walls higher and higher
as the water increased in depth. Soon it was necessary to fortify
the curbstone with a layer of snow to prevent an overflow on to the
sidewalk. Every few minutes one of them would test the depth by wading,
and it was not long before the water came up to within half an inch of
the top of Jack’s rubber boots, so that any careless movement on his
part would be sure to let some inside. Their number was rather smaller
than usual, as some of the “crowd” which ordinarily collected in front
of the grocery shop had gone down to the Frog Pond on the Common to
see if there were any “tiddledies,” which, as all Boston boys know,
are cakes of floating ice formed during the first stages of a thaw;
the sport being to jump from one to another, until _terra firma_ is
reached, without tumbling in. This was one of the favorite pastimes of
Jack and his friends. The water of the pond was only deep enough to
give one a thorough ducking, and though whoever was so unskillful or
unlucky as to fall in was sure to be greeted with a jeer of derision,
it may be fairly doubted whether the most miserable participants were
not the boys who went home dry.
But Jack considered himself very well employed as it was. He felt
pretty sure that if there were tiddledies to-day there would be
tiddledies to-morrow, and he was interested in making the dam as high
as his waist, if it were possible. There was such a volume of water in
the basin now that most of their active force was employed in pasting
snow against the back of the lower wall, through which there was a
steady leakage in spite of their best efforts. Two or three of them,
Jack among the number, had already gone in over their boots and wet
their trousers more or less above their knees, so that now they stood
along the sidewalk, or in the street, gazing contentedly into the
enormous pool. Perhaps they realized that there was not much more to be
done, for there began to be some fooling. Bill French introduced it by
dropping a bit of ice down Harry Dale’s back, gliding away in time so
that Harry could not get at him. Harry was just about Bill’s size, but
a little more chunky. He knew that Bill could outrun him, so he nursed
his wrath for the present, and, keeping his eyes open, bided his time.
The spirit of playing tricks upon one another proved contagious, so
that the dam was almost forgotten in the interest of several flights
down street and subsequent tussles. Only Jack and Dubsy still worked
away at the walls now and then, piling fresh snow on top and stopping
the leaks. All of a sudden, as Jack was standing leaning on his shovel
trying to understand how a fine stream of water trickling through the
solid wall of the dam had thus been able to defy his labors, Harry Dale
made a dive at Bill French, who was just behind Jack, and who was off
his guard at the moment. Bill gave a shriek, and, to protect himself,
tried to interpose Jack between his pursuer and himself by seizing Jack
roughly by the shoulders. Jack, who had been already annoyed by Bill
several times, and had contented himself with exclaiming, “Quit your
fooling, Bill,” or, “Let up, Bill,” goaded now by what he supposed
to be a fresh attack, dropped his shovel, seized his tormentor, and
suddenly pulling him forward by a quick movement brought him to his
knees; then picking up a handful of snow he rubbed it freely over
Bill’s face.
“That’s the sort, Jack; give him some more for me,” cried Harry.
Bill, who was struggling with all his might, sprang to his feet the
moment he was let free, and launched himself with rage on Jack’s neck.
In an instant Jack had grappled with him in self-defense. Bill, who was
thoroughly angry and bent on upsetting his adversary, twisted one of
his legs inside of Jack’s, and being lithe and active, though small,
made it incumbent on Jack to exert himself to avoid being thrown. The
pair swayed violently for several moments, then Jack, taking advantage
of a failure of Bill’s to trip him up, retaliated in the same fashion,
and over they went with Bill undermost. They struck against the wall of
the dam, which gave way before them with a slump. Jack, realizing what
the catastrophe promised to be, tore himself by an effort of strength
from Bill’s grasp just in time to avoid more than a severe splashing,
although he fell on his hands and knees, and had a lively scramble
to get away from the deluge which came pouring down upon him as soon
as the flood-gates were removed. But poor Bill, accelerated probably
by the effort which saved Jack, fell with the wall backwards into
the deepest part of the dam, so that his head and the upper portion
of his body were completely submerged. For an instant his struggling
black legs only were visible, then these were drawn under him as he
reappeared head first above the surface, wallowing as he staggered
to his feet. But Bill was doomed to still further discomfiture, for
scarcely had he gained a footing when he slipped and fell sideways
again into the dirty, slushy water, his head this time striking the
curbstone.
The pain of the concussion must have been tolerably smart, but anger
and mortification were sufficient to explain Bill’s facial expression
as he lay on the sidewalk after his companions had dragged him out.
His eyes were shut and his mouth was wide open, but from it at first
no sound issued. It seemed to the others as if the expected bawl were
never coming. But it came at last,――a terribly vociferous cry, preceded
by a noise like the humming of a large top, which increased in volume
until it was a yell,――bursting on them as a thunder storm bursts in
wind and rain after the silence which goes before. “Boo-ooo-ooo!” Then
it seemed as if he would never stop. Jack and the other boys, who were
rather frightened, bent over him with anxious faces, but it was soon
apparent that Bill was more mad than hurt.
“I’m very sorry, Bill; I didn’t mean to send you into the dam,”
protested Jack.
This attempt at consolation only induced a fresh fit of crying on the
part of the victim, which was redoubled when he saw his cap trimmed
with astrachan fished out with a shovel from the bottom of the now
largely depleted dam by Dubsy Perkins.
“It was an accident; Jack didn’t mean to,” said one of the others.
“Served you right for fooling so, Bill,” exclaimed Harry Dale. “We’d
all told you to quit.” Then turning to the rest, Harry said, “He ought
to go home or he’ll catch cold, fellows.”
Bill sulkily allowed himself to be lifted to his feet. He stood
shivering and dripping like a soused pup, sobbing and snuffling, and
eying ruefully his bedraggled cap. “I’ll make you pay for this, Jack
Hall,” he blurted out.
But Jack scarcely heard him, for just at the moment he gave a start,
and shading his eyes with one of his hands gazed intently down the
street.
“Here come the muckers, fellows,” he cried, with excitement.
His companions turned eagerly at his words and looked in the same
direction. Sure enough, a gang of other boys, twenty to twenty-five
in number, had suddenly emerged from a cross street at some little
distance below and was advancing up hill. As the invaders perceived
that they were recognized, they set up a derisive, triumphant yell,
and dashed onward at a rapid dog-trot, preparing snow-balls and waving
sticks.
[Illustration]
“There’s a regular posse,” cried Jack. “Who’ll go and tell the other
fellows?”
“I will,” cried Harry Dale, and suiting the action to the word he
started off to warn their friends, who were running tiddledies.
Meanwhile, Jack and the four other boys, who were all there were, for
Bill French had slipped away to change his clothes, retreated slowly as
their adversaries advanced, Jack having first, with the instinct of
destroying anything that the enemy might find pleasure in, swept away
with his shovel the remaining rampart of the dam. They were outnumbered
for the moment in the proportion of four to one, and though to retire
was ignominious, it seemed necessary under the circumstances. The
vanguard of the invading army now began to discharge their snow-balls,
the shower of which fell slightly short, but served to whet their
ardor. With another cheer and a yell the “muckers” rushed forward,
headed by a powerful-looking butcher’s boy, close by whose side ran the
ragamuffin who earlier in the day had threatened this invasion, and
who could be heard pointing out Jack and Dubsy as special objects of
vengeance.
[Illustration]
“Them’s the chumps, go for ’em!” he cried.
The little band, reluctant to run, wavered and hurled back a volley of
snow-balls, which were returned with vigor. The butcher’s boy was well
known in that quarter of the city as a terror. His balls made solely
with bare hands were hard as ice, and whizzed like bullets. One of them
took Jack in the cheek and stung like mischief, so that the water ran
out of the eye on that side of his face.
“Clean ’em out!” yelled the little instigator.
The consciousness that the protecting alley was close at hand nerved
the boys to hold their ground for a moment longer, and the courage
displayed by them, supplemented by several skillful shots, caused their
opponents to halt and advance more deliberately. Just then there came
flying round the corner Harry Dale, at the head of the detachment of
whom he had gone in search, and whom he had found in the next street
peppering the passers-by in a listless fashion, and only too glad to
come to the succor of their friends.
“To the rescue!” cried Dubsy, waving his arms above his head; and the
reinforcement of a dozen boys swept down upon the combatants.
This sudden turn of affairs was too much for the backers of Joe
Herring,――that was the butcher boy’s name,――who turned and fled
precipitately, although Joe and one or two others stood their
ground manfully and tried to rally them. But the counter cheer was
disheartening to an army with victory in its very grasp. They broke and
ran helter-skelter, followed closely by Jack and his comrades. Jack
kept his eye especially on Joe Herring, whom he longed to pay back for
the blow on his cheek; but even Joe did not wait for the new victors to
get too near, but ran at last. As for the youngster who had been the
guide of the raiders, he had taken to his heels at the earliest sign
of danger, and was among the first to reach the halting-place, where
the rout finally paused, not far above the cross street from which they
had emerged. There they made a stand, while their pursuers, who were
not too flushed with success to be cautious, being still numerically
inferior, drew up at a respectful distance and held a council of war.
These snow-ball fights were of tolerably frequent occurrence between
the boys who lived in Jack’s neighborhood and hordes from other
localities, who were apt to be styled muckers by those whose territory
they invaded. Once or twice every winter skirmishes such as the one now
in progress would develop into battles of some magnitude, enlisting
the services, on one side or the other, of all the youth in that part
of the city. Contests of this kind had traditions to encourage them.
Mr. Warren, of whom you will hear later, who had been the college chum
and dear friend of Jack’s father and was now his mother’s adviser, had
often told Jack of how, in the days long before he and Colonel Hall
were boys, there had been relentless strife between the Round-pointers
and the Nigger-hillers, and the North-enders and the South-enders, and
the Charlestown pigs, so called, which last named, in the language of a
local bard,――
“Put on their wigs,
And over to Boston came,”
only to be routed and driven back without them. Jack delighted in the
accounts of these old contests, and though the names were now changed
he had no difficulty in seeing in the Anderson-Streeters and their
allies, foes no less terrible than the boys with whom his forefathers
had fought.
But it is time to return to the immediate scene of action, where both
sides were beginning to realize that there had as yet been no real
fighting to speak of, merely a feeling of one another’s strength.
Scouts had, apparently, been sent out by the muckers to scour the
country, for recruits were coming in by twos and threes. They were a
motley-looking crew, as compared with Jack and his friends, including
some ragged specimens and several negroes, one of whom, a left-handed
lad nicknamed “Custard” on account of the lightness of his sable, was
unerring in his shots. Cardigans, for the most part, took the place
of overcoats among them, but some wore only tightly buttoned jackets,
and kept warm by kicking their toes against the curb-stones, and
alternately stuffing their hands into their pockets or blowing on
their bare fingers.
From time to time they jeered at and insulted the other army, who, by
their pea jackets and rubber boots, suggested the solidity and dignity
of grenadiers, an impression which was heightened by the silent disdain
with which they received the vituperation showered upon them.
But now the Anderson-Streeters, having accumulated a goodly supply of
ammunition, and being twice the numbers of their opponents, show signs
of an intention to attack. Their pickets edge up gradually on the
sidewalk, more or less sheltered by the trunks of the line of trees
which grow there. Snow-balls begin to fly, and Joe Herring at one
point and Custard at another move forward simultaneously, which is the
signal for a general advance. The grenadiers stand firm without firing
a shot. A perfect hail-storm is showered upon them, which they bear
unflinchingly. A loud yell spreads along the advancing line, and the
flower of all Anderson and Pinckney and Revere streets comes dashing on.
“Now let them have it, fellows!” cries Jack at last, who, with General
Warren’s instruction at Bunker Hill, of which he had recently read,
fresh in mind, has waited to see the whites of the enemy’s eyes before
giving the order.
“That’s the sort!” shouts Dubsy, as the whole volley delivered at short
range goes smashing into the faces of their foes.
It is so deadly a volley that two or three of the muckers clap their
hands to their eyes and cry out with pain; others sputter as they
receive the big hard balls full against their teeth. Several caps are
knocked off and fall into the snow. Jack, with his attention riveted
on Joe Herring, sees, to his delight, his first shot take the leader
squarely in the forehead, so that Joe shakes his head savagely like
an angry bull; yet, putting it down, comes on in butting fashion all
the same, and hitting Jack plump in the stomach nearly sends him over.
Custard, too, apparently is not struck, or at least, if he is, does
not mind it, and though some falter he does not, but with another yell
rushes at the grenadiers. These muckers, though checked for an instant,
have good stuff in them.
“Give it to them again!” cries Jack, who seems to be recognized as the
commanding officer.
This volley is well delivered, too, but the on-comers are too near for
it to have full effect. The balls go over the heads of Joe and Custard
and the other leaders, and before there is time to say Jack Robinson,
the two armies are at close quarters. Joe Herring, with a bound like a
wild-cat, gets his arms round the neck of the first of the grenadiers
in his path, and over they go together, with Joe on top, and rubbing
the snow about his adversary’s neck and ears, to accomplish which to
the best advantage he squats upon the victim’s chest. This is the first
feature in a hand-to-hand scrimmage which is waged for several minutes
without apparent advantage on either side, for Jack and Dubsy and Bill
Dale, who happen to be close together, form quite as formidable a trio
as any opposed to them. The muckers fall before them like nine-pins,
and scurry out of their way. Jack gets his fingers inside the collar of
his original enemy of the morning, and shaking him as a terrier would
shake a mouse, dumps him face downward in a pile of snow and slush.
This does Jack’s heart good. The little wretch blubbers and tries to
use the stick in his hand, which Jack snatches away from him, and with
a proper contempt for so unfair a weapon in a snow-ball fight, sends
flying over the wall of a neighboring yard. Sam Willis and George Bird,
two more of Jack’s set, do yeoman service also at the other end of the
line, driving their opponents back and washing the faces of the fallen
with energy.
As used to happen in encounters of old, when knights and other warriors
contended together, the leaders on either side seem at first to fight
shy of one another. They slaughter the weaker at the outset, making
incursions into the enemy’s line, so that often the two armies are
hopelessly confused. Indeed, Joe Herring and Custard are a hundred
yards apart from Jack and his chief allies, and between them the
rank and file are intermingled higgledy-piggledy. But presently, as
fatigue and lack of pluck begin to tell, the champions find that the
only enemies left worthy of the name are behind them, and by a common
instinct turn and eye one another, while the feebler boys draw off a
little as though waiting for the strife to be settled once and for all
by a battle of the giants.
Jack, at a glance, perceiving that Joe Herring and Custard and one
or two others are between him and the main body of his friends, and
seized by what he feels to be an inspiration of generalship, shouts to
Dubsy and Bill, and Sam Willis and George Bird, who are close beside
him, “Cut them off! cut them off!”
Whereupon Jack springs forward at the head of this detachment, imbued
with the idea, which they all share with him, of raking the enemy’s
vanguard fore and aft before the chief force of the muckers can come
up from behind. Inspirited by the plan, those above, among whom Bill
French appears in dry garments, present a bold front, and with a
shout charge. Joe and Custard, realizing their peril, hesitate for
an instant, while a shower of balls pours in upon them, whether to
break through the rallied array of grenadiers or to seek to rejoin
their friends; but before they can decide they are forced to defend
themselves. There are five of them, just equal in number to their
intervening enemies, who, with gritted teeth, bear down upon them.
Jack again singles out Joe Herring, who, adopting his old tactics,
lowers his head and plunges forward. But Jack does not intend to
have his wind knocked out of him a second time. He meets Joe with an
upper cut of his hand, which, though covered with a mitten, is full
of snow, and, jerking the butcher boy’s head up, grapples with him.
They wrestle fiercely; meanwhile, three of the other muckers, beset
before and behind at the same moment, are rolling on the ground. Only
Custard, with Dubsy hanging about his neck and Bill French and another
boy on his back, still struggles for freedom, shouting energetically
for his friends. They are coming by the score as fast as their legs
will carry them, but not soon enough to save their illustrious leader
from disaster. Three boys eager to leap upon Joe Herring are prevented
only by Jack’s decisive “Leave him to me,” so stand aloof ready to give
succor if it be needed. It is scarcely a fair match. Joe is nearly
a head taller and is a year older; his muscles are like steel, and,
moreover, he has thrashed everybody in the neighborhood who has ever
fought with him. If he can once shake Jack off, he will soon knock
the stuffing out of him. But Jack knows this, too, and having got a
good hold, means to have no fisticuffs if he can help it. He intends
to throw Joe if he can. He hears now, as they pitch from one side to
the other with faces scarcely an inch apart, the yells of the great
body of muckers closing in upon them, and knows that the fight is
being renewed on more even terms. Joe knows it, too, and, breathing
hard, makes one grand effort to swing his antagonist off his feet, so
as to be able to bring terror once more into the general ranks. Jack,
however, is ready for him, and, resisting stubbornly, waits until Joe
relaxes his muscles a little as the great effort proves unsuccessful,
then adroitly twists his leg about the champion’s and throws him. Down
they go together, but Jack uppermost, and――long dreamed-of triumph of
his life――able to secure a seat upon the butcher hero’s chest, and to
stuff his mouth with snow. Joe’s eyes are green as they gaze up at
him, and remind Jack of the cat whose death-throes he once witnessed
after the dogs had left her. This was the simile employed by Jack in
recounting modestly his victory that evening at the tea party.
But victory though it was, it was too short for comfort. Before Jack
has time to rub more than a handful of slush over his victim’s face
and ears, the army of invasion, by dint of numbers, drive back the
grenadiers, disputing every inch of ground, and two big fellows throw
themselves upon him and try to drag him off Joe. Harry Dale is on
top of them in an instant, and straightway a half dozen on each side
precipitate themselves and make a pile, at the bottom of which lies
Joe Herring still gripped by Jack. A fearful tussle ensues; the two
principals are of course practically powerless to move, and feel that
they are well off if able to breathe without difficulty. The legs of
both are firmly grasped by a score of arms, which in turn are kept down
by boys on top whom others seek to tear away from the pile. As fast as
one is pulled off another takes his place; heads, bodies, and limbs are
hopelessly intermingled, and neither party seems to have the best of it.
Just as Jack is wondering whether Joe is alive, because he is lying so
still, and whether he himself will not stifle, a shrill voice on the
outskirts of the fight pipes out, “Cheese it! Cheese it!”
At the words every boy ceases action, those on the pile waiting for
confirmation of the news which the alarm has conveyed, and those erect
following the gaze of the small mucker who has given it, and who is
already preparing to flee down the street. As their eyes perceive at
the street corner the officer in a blue blouse with brass buttons, and
armed with a rattan, advancing upon them at a slightly quickened gait,
a dozen of the urchin’s companions repeat the cry,――“Cheese it! Cheese
it!”
In the twinkling of an eye the pile disintegrates itself; the boys
of either faction get up and begin to scatter, the muckers hastily
and fearfully, the grenadiers more composedly, and yet unequivocally.
Jack and Joe uncovered are free to rise, which they proceed to do at
once without further hostilities. Jack, with his eye on the policeman,
mingles with the band of his friends who, gathered on the opposite
sidewalk to that on which the guardian of the peace is advancing, are
hoping to slip by him without molestation, feeling, perhaps, that
inasmuch as they are on their own territory, and merely defending
themselves against invasion, pardon may not be withheld from them. They
take care to be so far respectful in behavior as to refrain for the
moment from the insulting allusion to a cheese indulged in by their
late adversaries, which, for some reason or other, had come to be the
recognized phrase of warning and insult combined, among the youth of
the city, in referring to the constabulary; its origin――at least Jack
and his friends always supposed so――being connected with the theft,
either real or imagined, at an earlier date, of one of the commodities
in question by a member of the force. They await his coming, grouped
together, with almost an innocent air. On the other hand Joe, the
moment he is free, glances over his shoulder at the representative
of order, puts two fingers in his mouth preliminary to emitting a
piercing whistle, shouts “Cheese it!” at the top of his lungs, and
scoots down the street at full speed to the spot where he had deposited
his butcher’s basket. This regained, he continues his flight at a
more leisurely pace until distance hides him from view. His exodus
is the signal for a general stampede of his followers, who disappear
principally into the cross street by which they had come, pursued with
some swiftness by the officer, galled, perhaps, by their impertinence,
or encouraged by their pusillanimity. Jack and his grenadiers, not
having hoped in vain that the engine of the law would pass them by
unharmed, survey the retreat in complacent silence until the policeman
is comfortably remote, then at a signal raise their voices in a
prolonged, ungenerous, “Cheese it!”
The officer turns and looks back at them angrily, and raises his cane
in so threatening a manner that some of the fainter-hearted start
to run into Jack’s alley-way. But the alarm is short-lived; their
enemy, after an instant’s hesitation, proceeds on his way, reflecting
doubtless on the ingratitude of boys. The snow-ball fight is over, and
ten minutes later the grenadiers separate to their homes.