THOMAS FITZPATRICK’S WHISTLE
THE gravity of the strike situation increased. There was small prospect
of immediate yielding on either side. A few turbulent strikers blustered
and threatened, secret mass meetings were held, and whispers of ugly
times ahead ran through The Flatiron. Mrs. Stickney did not place much
faith in these rumors, yet they added to her restlessness, and she
redoubled her efforts to find work.
Blue walked the streets out of school hours, searching for a job; but
with the throngs of unemployed, many bent on the same business, he stood
only a chance with hundreds. His extra earnings grew lighter, and the
home purse correspondingly thin. The bird’s food box was empty, and
insects, dead or alive, were scarce. The mother dealt out rations with a
sparing hand, and nobody asked for more. Finally came a day, the day
that had been feared, when purse and pantry fell to the rank of Caruso’s
box, and the breakfast table showed only a bowl of baked bean soup.
The boys waited at their plates, Mrs. Stickney pottering about the
stove.
“Better hurry!” urged Blue. “It’ll get cold.”
“You eat it all; I don’t want any breakfast.”
“Not much!” declared the boy. “We’re going to wait till you come.”
“Course we are,” Doodles agreed.
“Oh, dear,” she fretted, half chuckling, “what children you are!” She
sat down and ate what Blue ladled out for her—she did not know whether
it was much or little, her mind was too distracted and her eyes too
misty. But the boy knew, and felt that he could better go hungry than
his mother.
Mrs. Stickney went out early on her forlorn errand, her heart full of
prayer for work. If nothing could be obtained to─day, she must try to
get a little more credit at the market—enough to bridge over this
crisis. After that—well, perhaps the strike would end! And, sighing, she
trudged on.
Blue decided daringly to stay away from school, and hunt for work. He
had not suggested such a thing to his mother, well knowing her sanction
would be hard to win. He reasoned, however, that this was an extreme
case, and that he must earn some money before night. Five hours of extra
time would give him a greater chance, and he resolved to take it.
“Are you very hungry, kiddie?” he queried as he took up his cap.
“Oh, no!” smiled Doodles. “I had a good breakfast; didn’t you?”
“Capital!” lied Blue. “But I’m goin’ to get yer something better
to─day—see if I don’t!”
“What you going to get?” coaxed Doodles.
“I d’n’ know yet—depends on how much I earn.” He went off whistling, for
the sake of the little brother who must not guess that the pantry was
empty.
Along the warehouses, beyond the school district, Blue kept his truant
way; but nobody was in need of an errand boy in that quarter, and after
nine o’clock he turned back towards the market section. Here he met a
man who was looking for somebody to hold his horse.
“He’s a leetle bit afraid o’ them autos,” the countryman explained, and
the boy well earned his five cents in the full quarter of an hour that
he spent in quieting the nervous animal.
Blue went home at the usual time. Nothing beyond the five cents had been
obtainable, and after a good deal of thought he had finally exchanged it
for half a dozen buns, arguing that buns would taste better than bread
without butter.
“Oh, I’m so glad you bought buns!” beamed Doodles. “I just love buns
with currants in them!”
The meager dinner waited until one o’clock; then, as the mother had not
come, the boys ate their share, feeding currants to Caruso and laughing
to see him snap them up so joyously.
“Mother must have found work, don’t you think?” Doodles asked a bit
anxiously.
“Sure, old feller! Don’t you be worryin’ ’bout that! She’ll come all
right pretty soon.”
Blue loitered on a side street until the clanging of the school bell had
ceased; then he boldly faced the throngs on the principal thoroughfare.
He applied at a dozen or more offices for something to do, meeting only
curt refusals. Finally a man more observing than the rest asked
abruptly:—
“See here, why ain’t you in school? You’re not fourteen yet?”
“No, sir,” admitted the boy, with a guilty flush. “I stayed out to try
to get a job.”
“Huh!” the man snorted. “Bet yer belong to the strikers! Don’t yer now?”
“Yes, sir; but my mother had to—”
“Oh! it’s yer mother, is it? So much the worse! Well, you c’n tell her
from me that if she’s such a fool as to give up a good job she needn’t
send her kids round here expectin’ me to support ’em! Now scoot, or I’ll
have the truant officer after yer!”
The boy’s eyes burned angrily, and he was off even before he received
his orders; but his ears were sharp, and he missed not a word. A
sneering laugh followed him, and pressed the injustice still closer
against his heart.
Thoughts of his mother’s brave fight for work, and of helpless little
Doodles, uncomplaining in his loneliness and privations, sent hot tears
to his eyes, and he darted blindly round the first corner, as if the
very street that held his enemy were not to be trusted.
On and on he ran, unmindful of his way, until he became suddenly
conscious of something unusual in the air, and, looking ahead, he saw a
crowd of people moving slowly towards him. That it was an excited crowd
was evident from the tumult of voices, mingled with shouts and yells,
now plain above the noise of the street.
“Must be goin’ to have a meeting—or had one,” he told himself. “The
union hall is down there on Blake Avenue.”
“Hello, Rob!” he called to a boy racing by on the opposite side. “What’s
up?”
“Oh, somethin’ fierce! Better not go any nearer!” the lad warned. “Dad
he said, ‘Git out o’ this on the double─quick, ’less yer want yer head
smashed!’ I tell yer, ther’ ’s goin’ to be an awful row! Hope dad won’t
git killed—my!”
“Aw, nobody’s goin’ to get killed! What you talking about!” Blue’s face
showed scorn.
“Bet yer ther’ will, now! You hain’t been there, an’ I have!”
“I’m goin’!” He started.
“Oh, don’t! Wait! wait a minute!” cried the other, aghast at such
recklessness.
Blue halted. “What yer want?”
“Why, I tell yer, ther’ ’s goin’ to be a big fight!”
“A fight! Not much! There’s Tom Fitzpatrick down there—ain’t it? Looks
like him. Guess ther’ won’t be many shiners where he is!”
“Huh! what can one cop do alone! Ther’ ain’t another anywheres, an’, I
tell yer, he’s got his hands full!”
“He can bring ’em easy enough with his whistle. He told me how—”
“Aw! he dassent blow it in face o’ that mob! Why, they’d knock him down
quicker! Bet they’ll kill him anyway!—Oh, don’t yer!”
But Blue was flying towards the tumult, and Rob, with one glance at the
on─coming rabble, fled in the opposite direction.
Tom Fitzpatrick in danger! The thought gave speed to Blue’s feet. As he
drew nearer, he could hear the rich voice, rising above the rest, but
calm and steady, not a bit as if its owner were afraid of those angry
men.
“Don’t you know you mustn’t carry that?” he was saying. And thrusting at
a red flag, he grabbed and furled it.
With a mad outcry and yells of “Down with him! Down with him!” the crowd
surged towards the officer.
At that moment, right in front of the fearless Fitzpatrick, almost under
his hands, popped up a small boy.
“Can I help you?”
It was little more than a breath, but Tom caught it, and glanced down
with the hint of a smile as he recognized Blue Stickney.
“Sure! Blow my whistle!” was the quick answer, in a tone to match the
query. With a deft motion, the little instrument was in the boy’s hand.
Thomas Fitzpatrick’s whistle! Blue could scarcely comprehend the truth.
For the joy of this moment he would have braved greater dangers than the
present. Only a few days ago—or so it seemed—the kindly officer had
explained the uses of his whistle, telling over his various signals.
Blue remembered them every one. Three sharp toots, then a long, long
blast—that was for help, and, freeing himself from the jam, the bit of
wood and metal was at his lips.
Above the uproar Fitzpatrick heard the call with inward relief. He had
not felt sure that Blue would recollect; but he could scarcely have done
better himself.
As for the boy, he repeated it fearlessly, exultingly, once, twice,
three times, in swift succession; yet nobody interfered. A small boy
with a whistle was not an unusual combination, and the mob had too much
else on hand to be interested in boys.
It was not a brutal crowd, but it was excited, defiant, and reckless. If
Thomas Fitzpatrick had not known just how to manage it, and if four
brass─buttoned men had not come racing to his aid,—there is no telling
what might have occurred. But before the body of the throng realized
what was happening the leaders of the disturbance were being marched off
to the police station.
Blue returned the whistle, and received most hearty thanks, given in his
hero’s best style. Then he cut across an alley and an open lot, in a
crow line for The Flatiron; he must unload his big news at home before
looking further for work.
He found his mother already there. She was eating a slice of butterless
bread, and she looked so weary and discouraged Blue quickly inferred
that her day had been unsuccessful and that she had begged further
credit at the market. Still even this could not rob his eyes of their
happy brightness, and hope leaped in her own. But she dropped back into
dejection when she learned the cause, growing only mildly interested in
the story of the whistle. Doodles, however, overflowed with enthusiasm
and questions.
“Wasn’t it just lovely you happened to be there?” he cried, his eyes
a─sparkle. “Oh, I wish I could have heard you blow it! Please do tell it
over once more!”
So the brother recounted the exciting incident, almost forgetting his
mother’s sad face in reliving the part that had thrilled him with such
delight.
“How much will your papers come to this week?” Mrs. Stickney sandwiched
irrelevantly between sentences.
“Oh! I don’t know,” began Blue. “Yes, I guess about ninety cents. You
see, the Newtons have moved ’way over west, and Mis’ Dempster owes me
for two weeks. I do’ know whether she’s goin’ to skip or not.”
“Have the Sizars paid yet?”
“Not a cent!”
“Do you ask them for it?”
“Oh, I ring the bell every week—and between times, too! But they’re
gen’ally out, or if they ain’t they won’t come to the door if they see
it’s me—”
“I, Blue—not me!”
“Well, I,—and if they do come they say they haven’t got it that day, and
so it goes.”
“It’s too bad,” the mother sighed. “I suppose you keep leaving the
paper.”
“Of course. If I didn’t they’d get it of some other feller, and it’s my
only chance.”
“I’d go an’ sit on the steps and wait till the man came,” put in
Doodles. “Maybe he’d pay it. If he didn’t, I’d stay there all day long,
an’ if they said to go away I’d tell ’em I was going to sit there till
they paid me. And I’d stay an’ stay an’ stay. By ’n’ by the neighbors
would begin to ask what I was there for, and, of course, I’d have to
tell ’em, an’ then the folks would be so ’shamed they’d give me the
money right off!” He ended with a chuckle.
Mrs. Stickney’s face relaxed into a smile, and Blue ran downstairs
laughing.
On the boy’s return from his paper delivery he found excitement in the
kitchen. His mother was crying, Granny O’Donnell was endeavoring to
comfort her, and Doodles met his brother’s questioning eyes with a
frightened face.
“Now, honey,” Granny was crooning, “ther’ ain’t annything to throuble
about—it’ll all coome right!”
“What’s up?” demanded Blue, striding across the room.
“Sure, th’ p’lice ar─re afther ye,” began Granny, but broke off
abruptly, as Mrs. Stickney sprang to her feet, and squaring her boy’s
shoulders with her hands gazed steadily into the clear eyes.
“You haven’t—haven’t—” she faltered, and then hid her face against his
rough coat, and ended her query with a sob.
“Of course, I haven’t!” he ventured recklessly. “Though I don’t know
what in the world you’re driving at!”
The mother wiped her eyes, and swallowed hard.
“A policeman—was trying to find you. He didn’t come up here, for Granny
told him you weren’t home. He said you were wanted at the police station
‘right away’! He didn’t know what the trouble was, or he wouldn’t tell.
You gave back the whistle, didn’t you?”
“Sure! Why, mother, don’t you worry! I haven’t done anything except what
Tom Fitzpatrick told me to! It may be the Sweeneys are makin’ a fuss
about the bird,” he mused; “but if they are Tom’ll back me up all right.
Now do stop cryin’!”
“You must go right off!”
“Well, I’m goin’! But I wish you wouldn’t act as if I’d stole a bank or
shot the President! I tell you, there ain’t anything to cry for—you’re
nervous! Poor little mother!” He kissed her, a most unusual attention
for him, and then dashed away and downstairs.
But Mrs. Stickney darted after, calling him back.
He came with reluctance.
“What do you want? You mustn’t hinder me,” he objected.
“Tell the truth, Blue!” She picked a thread from his sleeve, and
straightened his necktie with motherly care. “Whatever they ask you,
tell them the whole truth!”
“Why, of course!” with laughing impatience. “Is that all?”
“Yes. And if they blame you for blowing the whistle—or anything, be sure
and refer to Mr. Fitzpatrick. I ought to go with you, but I—”
“Aw, it ain’t necessary! I’m all right. Don’t you worry about me!”
Underneath his assumed bravery the boy had no relish for his errand, and
he was somewhat dismayed to find that his friend was not visible at the
police station. Still he went where he was bidden, with no show of fear,
but holding his head high, as became the blower of Thomas Fitzpatrick’s
whistle. For even the events of the last hour had by no means
extinguished the glory of his afternoon exploit.
The chief was a burly man, with small, shrewd gray eyes set in a
hard─lined face.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Blue Stickney, sir.”
“You are the boy, I believe, that summoned aid to Officer Fitzpatrick
this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Who is your father?”
“My father died six years ago. He was Julius Stickney.”
The chief nodded gravely.
“You have a mother?”
“Oh, yes, sir!”
“What does she do? Does she work anywhere?”
“She did work at the Big Shop, till she had to go out on strike.”
“She was foolish to do it.” The sharp eyes looked straight into those of
the boy.
Blue’s met them almost reproachfully. “She had to, sir! She’d ’a’ been
glad enough to keep on! She’s looked everywhere for work. She was in
McCann’s restaurant till he skipped—he cheated her out o’ ’most three
weeks’ wages!”
“He’s a scamp! She isn’t the only one that got left.”
“I know that all right!” The boy wagged his head emphatically.
“So you’ve had a hard time to get along, have you?” The voice held a
tender note; but, on inspection, Blue found the eyes to be as sharp as
before.
“Pretty hard, sir.” There was no response, and the boy, remembering his
mother’s last injunction, went on, with a rueful little laugh,
“Breakfast ran short this morning, and I stayed out o’ school to see if
I couldn’t find a job. Mother’s been lookin’ all day.”
“Find anything?”
Blue told briefly of his morning’s nickel, as well as of his mother’s
ill success and her increasing indebtedness at the market.
“Well, we are under great obligations for the service you rendered the
city this afternoon, and there’s a little something for your supper,”
thrusting a bank bill into his hand. “You can tell your mother that it
looks now as if the backbone of the strike was broken. We’ve got the
leaders of the trouble locked up, and I guess the silver folks and their
other hands will come to terms in a hurry. Tell her, too, that we
congratulate her on having a son that’s got a head on his shoulders.”
Blue, red─faced and embarrassed, with stammering thanks, slipped quickly
from the presence of the brusque chief, and dashed towards home.
His mother met him at the top of the stairs.
“All right!” he shouted. “Just see that!” He flourished his reward, his
eyes rounding from his sudden discovery. “My, if ’t ain’t a five!”
Granny, who had lingered to give consolation in case it should be
needed, came hobbling forward.
“Bluey, me b’y, I knew ye’d niver do annything that wud grave yer
mother’s heart, an’ it’s proud I am o’ ye!” Granny’s hard old hand
caught Blue’s little wiry one in a grip more emphatic than her words.
Mrs. Stickney listened to her boy’s story with growing joy, until when
he repeated the chief’s message she dropped into a chair and hid her
face in her hands.
“What in the world’s the matter?” gasped Blue.
“Why, she’s so happy!” piped Doodles, tears trickling down his flushed
cheeks.
“And you too!” rallied his brother. “Well, if you folks ain’t the
queerest! Don’t catch me cryin’ on this!” He swung the bill in
uncontrolled glee, stopping abruptly to ask his mother what he should
buy for supper.
He came home with parcels that set Doodles excitedly guessing what they
could be, and when a grapefruit—his especial delight—was uncovered, the
small boy broke into a hurrah that checked on her lips the mother’s
remonstrance at Blue’s extravagant purchase. But with the marketman’s
receipt in her hand, and the chief’s two messages in her heart,
thankfulness outweighed all else.
Granny remained for a cup of tea, and the meal was as merry as four
happy people and a blithe mocking bird could make it.
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