THE POTATO ROAST
A FEW nights later came the rally of the Progressives before their
election for playground officers. Since the episode of the stilts Hector
had taken a prominent part in playground affairs, and some thought it
was hurting his candidacy for president of the student body,—that it was
too small a matter for high-school students to consider. But he held to
his course.
The election for president was due the next week. Jim had decided on the
next afternoon, Friday, for Walter Buckman’s last demonstration.
Hector’s party had held their preëlection meeting also; but this
playground rally would be one more opportunity to test Hector’s
strength.
The benches were arranged on the ball ground this time, and Billy, who
was manager, saw that everything was ready before he went home for
dinner. When he came again he found Mumps, Redtop, and the squad of
freshmen left on guard, looking as if there had been things doing.
“It’s good the cop’s coming to-night; the Kid’s crowd intend to act up,”
Mumps said as Billy came up.
“What makes you think so?”
“They tried to beat us out of the benches.”
“How did you stop it? I see they haven’t been touched.”
“Mumps is the keen kid,” Redtop commended; “he told ’em we had those
benches from the supervisor and could keep them here till to-morrow
morning; and that we had a cop to see that no one interfered with them.”
“Bully for you, Mumps!”
“Redtop told the Kid that if they get busy hoodooing the Progressives
that’s all we ask; it will be the prettiest sort of a finish for the Kid
and Buckman.”
“Do you think that fixes them?”
“Yes, unless—They have some plan hatching to beat Hector that we can’t
find out. The election’s no walk-over for Hector; I can tell you that.”
Billy noticed that the Buckman boys were rather quiet, standing about in
small groups on the edge of the crowd; and also that whenever he went
near them the talking suddenly stopped; and once he caught a significant
lifting of the brow and a sneering smile.
There were many people already on the ground besides school children,
some walking about in the waning sunlight. Even at half-past eight the
torches seemed a joke this late May evening.
But the band was no joke. It was the band of the Chetwoot (black bear)
Troop of Scouts, the newsboys’ troop, and Mr. Streeter’s pride. Their
uniform was handsome, their marching excellent, and their music
remarkable considering they had been playing together less than a year.
Under the guidance of the best teacher Mr. Streeter could hire for them,
and with an enthusiasm that warmed his heart, the little chaps worked
together night after night; and now, when they came up the street, and
filed into their places, proud of being invited to play before such a
large audience, he led the clapping, which lasted till long after the
boys were seated.
Billy made a good chairman. Everything went off in orderly fashion. The
girls were represented by two short speeches in which the importance of
good manners on the playground was emphasized; the band played several
selections; Hector spoke convincingly of the responsibility of the Fifth
Avenue High for the good name of the playground, and Reginald Steele won
the fathers and mothers present by telling of Mr. Streeter’s Good
Citizens’ Clubs, and how their work should dovetail with all that the
Progressives were working for in their proposed playground government.
Billy expected some demonstration from Jim and his followers, but none
came; and the meeting was dismissed after band and audience had joined
in “America.”
The crowning triumph was a surprise; and provided by the girls. It was a
potato roast on a vacant lot across the street from the playground.
Every one present was invited, the parents being especially urged to
join the feast.
The bonfire made both light and cheer that were welcome in the cool
evening; and the girls with very rosy faces poked the ashes with long
sticks and rolled out bushels and bushels of hot potatoes. They had
thoughtfully graded them as to size, so that the smaller ones were
served first, though all had as many as they could eat. Salt, butter,
and sliced ham, with pickles for a relish, made a high mark for evening
outdoor fun.
The surprise was complete. Even the opposition could find no chance to
gibe.
“The girls take the cake but we get the potato!” shouted Walter Buckman.
“Three cheers for the potato roast!” he proposed with a heartiness that
showed him an adroit politician. They were given with vigor. And the
band played again, and they dispersed.
Billy felt well pleased with the evening, till at the very last of the
frolic, when he stepped into the edge of the crowd, he caught a low
sentence spoken with incautious clearness. “Oh, yes, they are hollering
to-night, but we’ve got the jump on them. The Kid is laying low.”
The words troubled him all the way home. And Erminie had not been there
as he had hoped. He did not agree with her that she should keep aloof
from the school activities; it was like acknowledging a wrong that did
not exist.
But he was tired, and too young and normal to lie awake long over any
anxieties—save those “Betsey kicked in for,” and he “hit the hay with
eyes already shut,” he told his mother the next morning.
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