THE MEETING
A TERRIBLE dread filled Johnnie's heart--that heart which had always
known so much dread. It took away his desire to go upon the roof; it
kept him awake long into the night, tugging at his hair, twisting and
turning upon his mattress, sighing, even weeping a little out of sheer
helplessness. Having his normal amount of the reserve, dignity and pride
that is childhood's, his dread was not that Big Tom, when he returned to
meet Mr. Perkins, would be rude to the scoutmaster (it did not occur to
him that the longshoreman would dare to go that far); it was that, in
the presence of the new friend whose good opinion Johnnie longed to
keep, Barber would order him around, jerk him by a sleeve, or shove him
rudely--treat him, in fact, with that lack of respect which was usual,
and thus mortify him.
The full moon was again lifting above the city and touching all the
roofs with silver. From where he lay he looked out and up, trying to
forget his wretchedness, but living the coming encounter again and
again. His ears grew hot as Barber seized one of them and wrung it, or
brushed his face with a hard, sweaty hand. Imagining insult upon insult,
his chest heaved and his wet eyes burned.
"Oh, One-Eye!" he whispered to a dear image that seemed to fill the
morris chair, "if _you_ was only here! Gee, Big Tom never dast treat me
bad before you!" It was not that he felt for a moment that the cowboy
was the better friend of the two whom he revered and loved; they held
equal places in his affections. But Mr. Perkins was too much of a
gentleman to be awe-inspiring. The Westerner, in his big hat and his
hairy breeches, was the man to be feared!
At breakfast he was given no chance to talk matters over with Cis. And
she neither saw his signals nor heard them, though he arranged both the
stove and the table to warn her that something had happened, and coughed
croupily till Barber told him roughly to shut up. He comforted himself
with reflecting that it would have done him no good had they threshed
the coming crisis out.
It was a shaken, hollow-eyed, miserable, unbathed little boy that
greeted Mr. Perkins when the scoutmaster rapped. And the sight of the
latter only made Johnnie's spirits sink lower. He had hoped with all his
heart that the leader would come in all the grandeur and pride of his
uniform; and here was Mr. Perkins in a light suit, a straw hat, and
white socks. The fact that he had on a lavender tie and was carrying
brown gloves made things just that much worse. Steadily, during the past
fortnight, the scoutmaster had been dressing better and better. This
morning he was finer than ever before. It was awful.
"You'll see," mourned Johnnie, his eyes on the clock as he talked.
"He'll be awful mean t' me. Here he says I can't listen t' scoutin' no
more! N'r nothin'! Say, Mister Perkins, if he shoves at me, would y'
ever give him biscuits and gravy again?"
Mr. Perkins thought it over. "Well, under the same circumstances," he
said finally, "what do you think Theodore Roosevelt would do?"
Johnnie could not decide. He felt that a look at the picture would help.
Hunting a match, he disappeared into the blue room, struck a light, and
gave the likeness a searching look. "I don't 'xac'ly know," he declared
when he came out; "but, Mister Perkins, I b'lieve maybe he'd just _lick_
him!"
A queer gleam came into those eyes which were a coffee-brown. "I
shouldn't be surprised," said Mr. Perkins, "if that isn't precisely what
the Colonel would do."
The door opened. It was Big Tom. His cargo hook hung round his great
neck. His hat was pushed back, uncovering a forehead seamed and sweaty.
To Johnnie he looked bigger and blacker than usual--this in comparison
with Mr. Perkins, so slim, if he was fully as tall as Barber, and so
immaculate, even dainty!
The older man had an insolent smile in those prominent eyes of his, and
a sneer bared his tobacco-stained teeth. Slamming the door, he came
sauntering toward the scoutmaster, who had risen; he halted without
speaking, then deliberately, impudently, he stared Mr. Perkins from head
to foot.
The latter glanced back, and with much interest, not staring, yet seeing
what sort of looking man the longshoreman was. To judge by the
expression in the brown eyes he did not like the kind. For suddenly his
eyelids narrowed, and the lines of his mouth set. "Introduce me,
Johnnie," he said.
Anxious, alert, and not hopeful, Johnnie had been watching the two, this
from the farther side of the table, so that he should not be handy in
case his giant foster father wanted to maul him. "This is Mister
Barber," he began, speaking the name as politely as he could, but
forgetting to complete the introduction.
"Tommie's home! Tommie's home!" piped up old Grandpa, suddenly waking
from his morning nap, and evidently not happy over his discovery.
"My name is Perkins," said the scoutmaster to Barber. He spoke
courteously, but there was no cringing in his manner.
"Perkins, huh?" returned Barber, grinning. He was so close to the other
that they all but touched. "And when did the cat bring _you_ in?"
In very horror those lead-pipe legs of Johnnie's almost gave way beneath
him, so that he clung to the table for support. "Oh!" he breathed.
But Mr. Perkins was smiling. "The cat brought me in just before he
brought you in," he answered quietly.
The reply wrought an instant and startling change in Big Tom. The smile
went from the bloodshot eyes, giving place to that white flash of rage.
The heavy nose gave a quick twist. Every hair in the short beard seemed
to bristle. "Now there's somebody in this room that's gittin' fresh," he
observed; "and freshness from a kid is somethin' I can't stand. I don't
mention no name, but! If it happens _again_"--he paused for
emphasis--"I'll slap the fancy eyeglasses right off his face!"
There was a tense pause. The two at the center of the room were gazing
straight at each other; and it seemed to Johnnie, wavering weakly
against the table, that he would die from fear.
However, Mr. Perkins was not frightened. His hat was in his left hand.
He let it drop to the floor. But he did not move back an inch, while
those well-kept hands curled themselves into knots so hard that their
knuckles were topped with white. "You wanted to see me?" he said.
"Y're wrong!" declared Big Tom. "I didn't want t' see y'. I had t' see
y'."
"I note the distinction," returned Mr. Perkins.
"Y' do! Well, just listen t' me a second," counseled Barber, "before we
git started on to what I've got t' say." Now his anger flamed higher. He
began to shake a big finger. "Don't you put on no fancy airs with me!
Y' git that? For the good and simple reason that I won't stand for 'em!"
He chawed on nothing.
"I was not aware that I _was_ putting on any fancy airs," answered Mr.
Perkins. "Airs are something that I don't--waste."
"Any high-falutin' stuff would be wasted 'round here," went on Barber.
"We're just plain, hard-workin', decent people.--And now we'll git down
to brass tacks." He passed in front of Mr. Perkins and settled himself
heavily in the morris chair.
The scoutmaster faced about, found the kitchen chair, and sat. "I'm
listening," he said. He was businesslike, even cordial.
"You seem t' hang 'round here about two-thirds of your time," commented
Big Tom, hunting his pipe.
"No," contradicted Mr. Perkins, easily. "Lately, I've been coming here
one hour a day."
"And just what's the idear?" The big fingers plucked blindly at the
strings of a tobacco-bag, for Big Tom did not take his eyes from the
younger man.
"I've been giving the boy setting-up exercises," explained Mr. Perkins.
"Y' have!"--sarcastically. "Ain't that sweet of y'!" Then with an
impatient gesture that scattered tobacco upon the floor, "Exercises!"
Big Tom cried wrathfully. "_Exercises!_ As if he can't git all the
exercises he needs by doin' his work! I have t' feed that kid, and feed
costs money. He knows that. And he earns. Because he ain't no grafter."
In sheer amazement, Johnnie's look strayed to Mr. Perkins. He had
expected mistreatment and insult for himself, and here he was receiving
praise!
"There's a difference in exercising," said Mr. Perkins. "Johnnie gets
one kind while he's doing his work. But his work is all inside work,
out of the fresh air that every boy needs. And certain of his muscles
are not developed. I've been correcting that undevelopment by giving him
the regular setting-up that we give all boy scouts."
"Shucks, your boy scouts!" sneered Big Tom. "We got no time for 'em.
We're poor, and we're busy, and we got a' old, sick man on our hands.
That's scoutin' enough!"
"Many men who have boys think as you do," acknowledged Mr. Perkins,
serenely. "That is, at first."
"I think it first and second," returned Big Tom, raising his voice. "And
also I know it."
"I promise you that it won't hurt Johnnie," urged the scoutmaster.
"Yeh? But I know what _would_ hurt Johnnie, and that's growin' up t'
look like _you_!"
At that, Mr. Perkins burst out in a laugh. It was both good-natured and
amused. "Well, my looks suit me," he declared.
"Which is more'n _I_ can say of 'em," retorted Barber. "They don't suit
me a _little_ bit!"
Mr. Perkins laughed again. "Sorry," he said, but his tone entirely
contradicted his assertion.
Barber kept on: "Your looks don't suit me, and neither does your talk.
You're altogether too slick, too pink-and-whity, too eye-glassy, and
purple-shirty, and cute-socky, and girl-glovy."
"I see."
"T' put it plainer, y' don't look t' me like a real man." Out now came
the underlip, threatening, aggressive.
"Indeed?" Dire as the insult was, Mr. Perkins was still smiling, was
even a trifle bored. "And what kind of a chap _do_ you think is a real
man?"
"Somebody," answered Big Tom, "that's ev'rything you ain't. Why, honest,
you look too nice t' me t' be out in bad weather. Y' know, one of these
days you'll melt, 'r git streaked."
"Mm! Perhaps I'm too clean." Those coffee-colored eyes were cool. With
one swift up and down they examined Big Tom's apparel.
The longshoreman squirmed under the scrutiny. "Y' don't look like y've
ever done a lick of honest work in your whole life!" he declared hotly.
"Y' look like your pink face was made o' dough, and the balance of y'
out o' putty! Y' look as if the calf'd licked y'!"
Again that amused, bored smile. "No," said Mr. Perkins, "that hasn't
happened yet."
"No? Well, y' never can tell. Y' _might_ git licked by somethin'
_besides_ a calf."
Another of those pauses which seemed so terribly long to Johnnie, and so
fraught with direful possibilities. Then, "I might," agreed the
scoutmaster, carelessly; "but again I--might not."
Now Barber showed that he did not possess the self-control that
distinguished the younger man. His heavy, hair-rimmed mouth working as
if with unspoken words, he rose, pocketed the pipe, and took a long step
toward the table, upon which he planted both his huge hands. As he
leaned there, it was plain that he longed for trouble. "I might not!" he
mocked, disgusted. "Sure, y' might! For the reason that you ain't the
kind that's got a wallop in your fist!"
Mr. Perkins got up, too. But only as if it were the well-bred thing to
do. The bronze of his face was considerably darker than usual; and his
eyes were black, and shone like great beads. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as
amused as ever. "Now I think I know what it is that you respect most in
men. Brute force. Am I right? Muscle! The power to give a hard blow."
"Dead right!" answered Barber, striking the table with his open hand.
"I hate a mollycoddle! a cutie! a reg'lar _pill_!"
Mr. Perkins nodded in the friendliest way. "So do I," he declared
heartily. "And that's just why I want to train Johnnie's muscles, and
teach him how to use his hands."
Big Tom straightened and went round the table. "I'll train Johnnie's
muscles," he said; "and I'll teach him what t' do with his hands, too.
And you keep your nose out of it. Understand?" Then deliberately
reaching out, with one finger he gave Mr. Perkins a poke in the chest.
That chest swelled under the neatly buttoned light coat. Yet Mr. Perkins
continued to smile. But he did not move back by so much as an inch. And
presently, with a low "Bah!" of anger and disgust, the longshoreman
loafed away. "All right," he drawled, in a tone of dismissal; "and now
I'll ask for your room."
"My room?" The scoutmaster did not appear to understand.
"Yes! Yes!"--loudly, and facing round. "I'm askin' y' not t' bother us
any more this mornin' with your ever-lastin' talk!"
"Oh. You wish me to go." Mr. Perkins took up his hat and gloves.
"My, but you're smart!" exclaimed Barber, sarcastically. "You can
understand plain English!--Yes, _dear_ Mister Perkins, I mean that I
don't want y' round." With that he continued on to the hall door, and
opened it. "This way out," he said flippantly. The brown teeth showed
again.
Mr. Perkins gave Johnnie a cheery smile. "Good-by, old chap," he said.
He went to the wheel chair and laid a gentle hand on Grandpa's shoulder.
"Good-by, Grandpa!"
"Good-by, General!" quavered the old man. "Good-by!" A shaking hand
lifted in a salute.
Mr. Perkins gave Barber a courteous nod as he passed him. "Good-by," he
said pleasantly.
"Good-by," returned Barber. "And good riddance!" He slammed the door.
Then something strange happened--something that had never happened
before. Without giving Johnnie a look, Barber lifted down the lamp,
lighted it, carried it into Cis's room, and closed the door.
Rooted to the floor, alert as any frightened mouse, Johnnie listened. He
could hear the longshoreman moving about, and the scrape of the
dressing-table box as it was lifted from its place, then shoved back.
What was Barber hunting? Fortunately the books were wound up in
Johnnie's bedding, a precaution taken by their owner in view of Barber's
spoken determination to return and take a look at Mr. Perkins. By any
chance did the longshoreman know about the Handbook? If he did, and if
he found it, what would happen then?
After what seemed a long time, Barber appeared. Except for the lamp, his
hands were empty. He blew into the top of the chimney and set the lamp
back in its place. "Tea," he ordered.
Startled, Johnnie fairly rose into the air. When he touched the floor
again, he was halfway to the stove. He set the table for one, mustering
the food which Big Tom was to have had in the lunch pail. Barber ate,
occasionally growling under his breath; or blew fiercely at the full
saucer from which he was drinking. His look roved the room as if he were
still searching. His meal finished, he found his hat, hung the cargo
hook about his neck, and slouched out.
Then for the first time Johnnie relaxed, and slumped into the morris
chair. He was not only weak, he was sick--too sick with bitterness and
hate and shame and rage even to care to go into Cis's room to see in
what condition Big Tom had left it. He knew now that the rough handling
that he had feared for himself, though it would have been hard enough to
endure, was less than nothing when compared with what he had suffered in
seeing Mr. Perkins insulted, and ordered out.
He began to talk to himself aloud: "Good turns don't work! I'm sorry I
ever done him one! I'll never do him another, y' betcher life!" Black
discouragement possessed him. What good did it do any one to treat a man
like Barber well? "Why, he's worse'n that mean Will Atkins that Crusoe
hates!" he declared. "And the first time I git a chance, away I'll go,
Mister Tom Barber, and this time I won't _never_ come back!"
"Sh!" whispered old Grandpa. "Sh!" The faded blue eyes were full of
fear.
Johnnie fed the old soldier and got him to sleep. Then he tapped the
basket signal up to Mrs. Kukor's. He had found the bed roll undisturbed,
and knew that Big Tom had not discovered his treasures. But he would not
take any further chances. When the basket came swinging slowly down, he
called a brief explanation to the little Jewish lady. When the basket
went up, it swung heavily, for his six precious books were in it.
Now he had no time, and no inclination, for reading. And he had no
patience for any law that aimed to stand in his way. (Big Tom had driven
Mr. Perkins from the flat; also, he had just about swept the place clean
of every good result that the scoutmaster had worked.) What Johnnie felt
urged to do seemed the only thing that could lessen all that rage and
shame, that hate and bitterness, which was pent up in his thin little
body.
"So I can't ever be a scout, eh?" he demanded. "Well, you watch me!" He
planted the kitchen with a trackless forest through which boomed a wind
off Lake Champlain. The forest was dark, mysterious. Through it,
stealing on soft, moccasined feet, went Johnnie and the cruel Magua,
following the trail of the fleeing and terrified longshoreman.
They caught him. They bound him. And now the _Hispaniola_ came into
sight across the Lake, her sails full spread as she hurried to receive
her prisoner. Johnnie and Magua put Barber aboard. The latter pleaded
earnestly, but no one listened. Again the ship set sail, bound for that
Island which had yielded up its treasure to Captain Smollet's crew. On
this Island, Big Tom was set down. And as the _Hispaniola_ set sail once
more, her prow pointed homeward, Johnnie looked back to where the
longshoreman was kneeling, hands appealingly upraised, beside those
certain three abandoned mutineers.
"And there y' stay," called Johnnie; "--for life!"