IN WHICH A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED
The following morning was clear and sun-shiny. Silvey, his trousers'
pockets strangely distorted, sprinted down the street and halted on the
cement walk in front of the Fletcher house.
"Oh, John-e-e-e! Oh, John-e-e-e!"
John appeared at an upper window in answer to the ear-piercing call. He
carried a dustrag in one hand, and an expression of extreme discontent
was on his freckled face.
"What you want?"
"Come on out."
"Can't." Disgruntled pessimism rang in his tones.
"Why?"
"Got to tidy my room and dust the bookcase and hang up my clothes in the
closet and cut the front grass. Mother says so."
"Aw-w-w, shucks! Can't you get out of it?" His friend fumbled in one of
his bulging pockets. "Look!"
The laborer at household tasks stared with sudden interest. "Ji-miny,
cukes! Where'd you get 'em?"
"'Long the railroad tracks. Vines are loaded. Nice and ripe, too.
Watch."
He hurled the greeny, spiny oval against the window ledge where it burst
with the peculiar "plop," which only a wild cucumber of a certain stage
of juicy plumpness can make.
"The fellows are going to have a big fight," Silvey continued--"Perry
Alford and Sid and the Harrison kids and all the rest of the gang. Ask
your mother can you leave the work until afternoon. Tease her _hard_."
Cucumbers ripe so early? That was fine! But could he evade the Saturday
tasks. He would try.
As he descended the stairs, the elation left his face and his step grew
heavy and lifeless. He was framing a plea for freedom and his manner
must fit the occasion. Had you seen him, you might have thought that his
best bamboo fishing pole had been broken, or that the key to his
bookcase was in maternal possession as punishment for some misdeed. All
boys are splendid professional mourners anyway, and John was by no means
an exception to the rule.
He halted in the dingy coat closet to listen. Through the closed kitchen
door came his mother's voice uplifted in song.
Nita, Oh, Ju-a-a-nita,
Ala-a-s that we must part!
He sighed deeply. Bitter experience had taught that never was moment so
unpropitious for errands like the present as when that cheerful dirge
filled the air. But the thought of the waiting Silvey nerved him. He
turned the doorknob and coughed hesitantly. His mother looked up from
the pan of apples on her lap and smiled. She knew that lagging step and
drooping mouth of old.
"Well, John?"
Her son fidgeted from one foot to the other. Beginnings were always so
difficult. At last he blurted out:
"Mother! Bill's outside with a lot of cucumbers. Says the fellows are
going to have a sham battle and wants me to come along."
"Did you put your shoes away in the bag on the door and hang up your
good knickerbockers and coat?"
His eyes began to fill. "N-no," he admitted.
"Well, you've been upstairs nearly an hour," Mrs. Fletcher went on
inexorably. "I suppose your room is tidied and dusted anyway."
"Not quite," reluctantly. If the truth were told, a new book from the
public library had caught his eye as he was about to start, and time had
flown as a consequence.
His mother shook her head. "That's your regular Saturday work, John. It
has to be finished before you can go out. You know that. And there's the
lawn to be cut, and the porch to be hosed. You skipped them last week."
"I'll do them this afternoon. Honest, I will." His lower lip began to
tremble. Mrs. Fletcher struggled to hide a smile.
"Tell Bill you'll be out later." She disregarded his offer of
compromise. "Now run along, son. Teasing only wastes time. You could be
half finished if you'd only worked."
There was no mistaking the tone. It meant business in spite of the
aggressive cheerfulness. He turned moodily and stamped out of the room.
As the door closed, he found an outlet for the disappointment in half
mumbled ejaculations.
"Mean old thing. Never lets a fellow do what he wants. Just as well have
let 'em go until afternoon. What's the use of tidying a room, anyway?
Always gets dirty again."
Half-way up the carpeted stairs, he tripped in his blind anger and
bruised his knee. The pain was sufficient to make the tears--the easy
flowing tears which had longed for an outlet from the start of the
interview--stream from his eyes.
In a trice, he turned, threw back the door, and fled to the haven of his
mother's lap. His arms sought clumsily to encircle her neck. She dropped
the pan of apples on the floor, and gathered him, a sobbing little
bundle, into her comforting arms.
"What is it, son?"
"My knee." One uncertain hand indicated the injured spot.
"Ah, son, son," she laughed softly with just a hint of a catch in her
voice as she rubbed the injury gently, "is it only when you want
something that you love me like this?"
He shook his head and snuggled closer in vehement protest. They rocked
to and fro for some moments. Gradually the sobbing ceased and he lay
blissfully motionless until she looked down at him. Then he said
sheepishly,
"If I do the lawn now, can I leave the porch and my room until
afternoon?"
Mrs. Fletcher gave her son an amused shake. He sensed hope for his cause
and began to weep anew.
"Please!"
His mother's smile broadened. "You little humbug," she said softly.
John wanted to smile, too. She always said that when she was relenting.
"Can I?" eagerly.
"Well, make a good job of the front lawn and I'll see."
He struggled to his feet and was on the front porch before the kitchen
door had slammed behind him. Half-dried tears still streaked his face,
but a smile shone through them like the sun after a summer shower.
"Got to cut the front lawn," he said exuberantly, "but that won't take
long. She says I can leave the rest of it."
Silvey's face clouded. "They're waiting for us in the big lot."
"Won't take long if you help me," John hinted gently. "You run the mower
and I'll follow with the rake."
He darted back into the house and down into the dark, badly ventilated
basement. Silvey sauntered around to the side, just in time to hear him
struggling with the rusty door bolt.
They dragged the implements up the area steps and set to work grimly. No
time to be spent in making erratic circles or decorative designs in the
long grass now. Up and down, up and down, the mower whirred with
methodical thoroughness until the little plot had been cut after a
fashion.
"Guess that'll do," said John as they bumped the tools down the rickety
wooden steps and left them lying in the doorway.
"Going to tell her you're finished?"
Mrs. Fletcher's son shook his head vigorously. "S'pose I want to trim
the edges with the shears? Come on. Beat you over the tracks!"
The lot where the boys had held their first football practice was large
and occupied more than half of the double city block on which the dairy
farm was located. The far end was flanked by a row of red, ramshackle
frame stores, occupied by photographers, art dealers, and a Greek ice
cream soda shop. A little further in and along the railroad fence, dense
weeds flourished, topping at times even the tallest of the boys. Nearer
to the dairy, short, sparse grass struggled for existence under a
profusion of tin cans, charred wood, and broken milk bottles. A
considerable area had been cleared of these impediments, and formed the
boys' athletic grounds. Near one corner stood a monster pile of barrels
and boxes, collected some months past, for a bonfire; but the policeman
on the beat had interfered with a threat of arrest for the whole tribe,
and the giant conflagration had not taken place.
The pair were greeted with shouts as they jumped down from the railroad
fence.
"What took you so long?" Sid DuPree asked.
John explained. The members of the gang offered congratulations at the
escape, or sympathized with him over the work yet to be done, according
to their several viewpoints. The elder Harrison boy led the two to one
side and pointed out a scant bushel basket of the green ammunition.
Others explained the plans for the morning's fun.
"Silvey 'n I'll be generals of the armies," said John, when the babel
had diminished. Sid raised his voice in protest.
"Give somebody else a chance. Let Red and me be it this time."
Silvey shouted derisively. "'Member the time you got hit in the eye with
a snowball? Went home, bawling 'Ma-m-a-a, Ma-m-a-a.' Fine general you'll
make!"
Sid brandished his fists with a show of braggadocio. "Want to fight
about it?"
"Na-a-w," came the sneering reply. "Don't fight with cowards."
John turned upon the pair imperiously. "Silvey'n I'll be generals, just
as I said. Cut out the quarreling. If you don't like it, you don't have
to. Want to quit?"
Sid mumbled a sulky denial and retreated to the outer edge of the little
group. There he poured out his troubles to the elder Harrison boy. John
and Bill were always bossing things; ought to let him lead once in a
while; thought they were the earth, anyway.
John shot him a keen glance and whirled upon Silvey.
"First choose!" he shouted.
"'Tain't fair," objected his rival. "I wasn't ready. Draw lots."
Perry Alford plucked a half-dozen blades of grass of varying lengths and
folded them carefully. Then he held one, tightly closed, chubby hand
first to Bill and then to John. The leaders compared their prizes.
Silvey gave an exultant yell and beckoned to a gawky, loosely jointed
lad who stood a little apart from the rest of the gang.
"Come on, Skinny! You're on my side."
Skinny's long arms made him a welcome addition to any force and a
warrior to be feared at all times. Occasionally he performed feats of
marksmanship which not even the two redoubtable leaders could equal.
The group of boys drew closer. Perry Alford lagged with seeming
nonchalance, a step in the rear of his more eager play-fellows. Sid
DuPree picked up a pebble and threw it unerringly toward a railroad
fence post as John eyed him regretfully.
If only that youngster had not such a reputation for quitting under
fire, time and again during their many mimic battles! Then his glance
fell upon Red Brown's impudent, freckled face and he smiled. Here was a
warrior with a temperament to delight the leader of a forlorn hope.
"Come on, Red!"
Sid was promptly seized upon by the rival commander.
"Perry Alford," said John.
The remaining half-dozen mediocrities were divided without further ado.
Then the two leaders stepped gravely to one side and discussed the rules
for the approaching conflict, while the rank and file of the two armies,
twelve strong, amused themselves by wrestling, throwing bits of stone
and glass up on the railroad tracks, and engaging in impromptu games of
tag.
"Each fellow gets twenty cucumbers," concluded John. "That'll leave some
for fun, later. If a man gets hit three times, he's a deader and has to
quit. Side wins when the other fellows are killed, same as it was last
year."
Silvey nodded and beckoned to his clan. The Fletcherites were about to
withdraw to the opposite side of the field when an unforeseen
interruption occurred.
"Wanta fight!" announced a tousled-headed, wash-suited five-year-old
with determination.
"Go on!" retorted Silvey incautiously as he looked down upon the
petitioner from the lofty height of ten long years of life. "This game
ain't for babies. It's for _men_. You'd get hit in the eye and go home
to ma-ma in a minute. You can't play."
The infant eyed him for a moment and threw himself on the ground in a
fit of rage. "Wanta fight! Wanta fight! Wanta fight!" he wailed again
and again.
Bill turned to Skinny Mosher angrily. "What do you always bring that kid
brother along for? He spoils all our fun. Ain't you got any sense?"
"Sense?" replied that star marksman in injured tones. "You bet I've got
sense. But what's a fellow to do when his ma says, 'Now, Leonard, take
little brother along and see that those big, rough boys don't hurt
him.'" Tone and mannerisms were in perfect imitation of Mrs. Mosher.
"Give him some cucumbers and let him fool around. That'll keep him
quiet," Red suggested.
"Yes," retorted Silvey scornfully. "Then he'll mix in the fight and get
hit and go home bawling, same as he did when we had the snow fort. Then
his ma'll go around to our mas and tell 'em what rough games we play and
how it's a wonder somebody hasn't lost an eye. We'll all get penny
lectures and the fun'll be spoiled for a week. Oh, yes, let him fight!"
John broke the gloomy silence which followed. "Here, kid, you can join
both armies at once."
The incubus ceased wailing and looked up eagerly. Silvey's and Skinny's
faces bespoke perturbed amazement.
"How----," interrupted Red Brown.
"You can be a Red Crosser and look after the ones who get killed," John
continued serenely. "Only you mustn't fight. Red Crossers never do. They
just stay around the hospitals." He fumbled in a hip pocket for the bit
of red school chalk which he used for marking hop-scotch squares on the
sidewalks. "Come here and I'll put the cross on your arm. And," he
offered as alluring alternative, "if you don't like that, I'll punch
your face and send you home!"
Like the one non-office holder of a certain short-lived boys' club who
was given the specially created position of "Honorable Vice-President,"
the Mosher infant was more than placated. As he galloped off astride an
imaginary horse for a circuit of the field, the factions breathed a
unanimous sigh of relief.
"No fair firing until we say 'Ready,'" shouted the exultant diplomat, as
he gathered his forces and led them toward their own territory.
"Now," said he, when they reached the tall, straggling weeds, "how're we
going to beat 'em?"
Immediately a babel of suggestions ensued. Bill waited a few impatient
minutes and executed a taunting, barbaric war dance to the center of the
field. Carefully planned campaigns were not for him; his force boasted
too many good marksmen.
"'Fraid cats! 'Fraid cats!" he shrieked at the top of his lungs.
"C'ardy, c'ardy custard, eatin' bread an' must-a-ard. Come on an' get
beat. Come on an' get beat."
John nodded at a suggestion of Red's and turned to the dancing figure.
"Ready, ch-a-arge!" he shouted. Silvey retreated promptly to the shelter
of his own army. Presently his four weakest marksmen advanced.
"Wants to get us fighting," explained General Fletcher, as he restrained
his impatient subordinates. "Then he and Skinny and Sid will pick us
off. Come on--and remember."
They advanced silently without wasting a cucumber. The elder Harrison
boy who led the four skirmishers, ventured a shot to open the
engagement. Silvey, Skinny, and Sid DuPree sauntered carelessly up.
"Now!" shouted John.
His little force split into two groups. Red, with Perry and two others,
charged to the right of the advancing quartette, while the general's
detachment dodged quickly past their left. Then at a signal, seven arms
loosed a shower of missiles at the startled trio of leaders.
A cucumber caught Skinny Mosher squarely below his ear. Another left a
moist spot on one of Silvey's oft darned stockings. A third missile
found another mark on the now bewildered Mosher. Red Brown advanced upon
him.
"Surrender!" he yelled.
Mosher fished another cucumber from his trousers and fired squarely at
his advancing enemy. That gentleman dodged, tripped upon a bit of
debris, and fell over backwards with a "plop." As Skinny advanced
incautiously to make sure of his victim, Red retired him with a glancing
shot on his upraised hand.
"You're a deader, you're a deader," he yelled as Mosher lifted his arm a
second time. "John hit you and the little Harrison kid hit you, and now
I did. That makes three times, and you're killed entirely."
"Shucks," grunted the disgusted corpse. "Just as I was beginning to have
some fun, too."
The victor busied himself in removing bits of flattened cucumbers from
his juice-soaked hip pockets. "Just wait until ma sees these pants," he
said ruefully. "Hey, John, I'm going after more ammunition."
The main conflict slackened. To lose a first lieutenant at the outset,
and to have two more members of your army near death, is no slight
matter. Silvey grew more and more disconcerted as the failure of his
offensive became apparent.
"Beat it," he yelled at last as a stray shot missed his shoulder by a
scant inch. The survivors retreated to the shelter of the boxes and
barrels, where they maintained a desultory fire.
The advantage of the impromptu fort began to make itself felt. Missile
after missile shot accurately out at the attackers and retaliation was
well nigh impossible. John withdrew his forces just out of range.
"We've got to do something," he said desperately. "Who's hit on our
side?"
Red pointed to a discolored nose and admitted "Twice." Perry Alford
indicated a moist, dark circle on his wash blouse and a sticky lock of
hair. Their leader looked grave.
"Silvey's hit twice, and Skinny's dead, so that leaves them only five.
But, Jiminy, Red, if you and Perry get hit, it's all up. And look where
they are. Maybe I can get 'em to come out."
He advanced a few paces toward the weathered heap of debris and broke
into a time-honored taunt:
Silvey, th' bilvey,
Th' rik-stick-stilvey!
To which the intrenched commander of the enemy replied,
Fletcher, oh, Fletcher,
Th' old fly catcher,
and exposed just enough of his person to wriggle ten brazen fingers from
the tip of his nose. John made a last, despairing attempt.
"'Fraid-cat! 'Fraid-cat! 'Fraid of getting hi-i-t! Ya-a-h!"
"Come on and hit me, then," came back the answer, which admitted of no
retort save action.
"We've got to chase 'em out someway." He turned desperately to Red. "You
and Perry Alford sneak up behind that thick lot of weeds when we start
yelling and dancing like everything. Then we'll charge and drive 'em
around to your end. But don't let 'em hit you."
In the meantime, the youngest member of the Mosher family had discovered
that his position as "Red-Crosser" carried only a decoration on his
sleeve, which admitted of no honor or excitement whatever. He crept up,
unobserved by the excited Fletcherites, raided the cucumber basket of as
many of the missiles as his little pockets would hold, and halted within
easy distance to watch the attack on the fortress.
Red and Perry sneaked stealthily to the weed-clump ambush while their
comrades showered cucumbers on the sheltered foe recklessly.
Occasionally the defenders replied with a shot whenever a good mark was
presented, but for the most part, they seemed content to keep the box
heap between them and their enemies and bide their time. Farther and
farther away they edged in response to the flanking movement of the main
division of John's army, until Red, deeming the moment opportune, fired.
Perry Alford followed. Silvey, surprised by the sudden attack from the
rear, turned and received a cucumber full upon his half-open lips.
"Who did that?" he sputtered, as he dislodged the acrid fragments from
his mouth.
Red threw caution to the winds and danced exultantly out in the open.
"You're a deader. You're a deader. I killed the general. I killed the
general."
Silvey advanced on him furiously. "I'll punch your face in, hitting me
in the mouth that way."
Brown was ever in ecstasy at the prospect of a fight. "Come on and do
it," he retorted. "Didn't last football practice, did you?"
Silvey doubled his fists. His opponent held his ground. The rank and
file of the two armies dropped their cucumbers and gathered in a little
semi-circle to watch the fight. The youngest Mosher boy crept up and
balanced himself unsteadily on one foot. In his right hand he held a
cucumber, and on his face shone set determination.
"Wanta fight," he cried, as the combatants began the inevitable
preliminary sparring. "_Goin'ta_ fight!"
The next moment, a cucumber caught Silvey squarely in the eye. The
latter turned, dug viciously in his pocket for ammunition, and fired a
handful of cucumbers at his assailant without perceiving, in his blind
rage, who it was. Yell after yell filled the air.
"Now look what you've done," exclaimed Mosher miserably. "Just watch me
catch it when he gets home."
"Well," Silvey snapped, still angry as the others gathered around the
infant, "I told him to keep out of the cucumber basket. What did he
throw at me for?"
The wails continued. Skinny bent anxiously over his brother. "Come,
buddy," he coaxed. "You're not hurt badly."
"W-a-a-a-h!" The boys began to feel alarmed.
"Where did he hit you?"
"W-a-a-a-h!"
Silvey looked down remorsefully. "Here, kid, here's some cucumbers. You
can hit me as hard as you want and get even."
"W-a-a-a-h!"
Once more, Mosher tried to assuage his brother's grief. "Look at the
funny man who's coming over to see you. Don't let him find you crying."
The "funny man" proved to be the school physician who was returning from
a professional call. He dropped his medical case on the turf and stooped
over the prostrate urchin, who promptly kicked him in the shins.
The doctor drew back hastily. "What's the matter?" he queried.
"Th-th bad boy hit me."
"Which one?"
A grimy, tear streaked hand pointed to Silvey. The medic turned to him.
"Come here, boy," he said majestically.
Instead, Silvey beat a hasty retreat to the railroad tracks. There, from
the summit of the embankment, he heaped abuse on the inoffensive figure
with the little black case.
"Smarty, smarty, smart-e-e-e!" he shrilled. "Johnny made a monkey of
you. Johnny made a monkey of you!"
The ex-members of the armies snickered. Still the shouts continued. The
doctor flushed a deep scarlet. To retreat in the face of the taunts
seemed cowardly--to remain was rapidly becoming insufferable.
"Tell your friend he'd better keep quiet," he said in futile anger.
Silvey interpreted the gesture which accompanied the ultimatum.
"Come on and make me quit," he chanted. "Johnny made a monkey of you and
I can, to-o-o!"
The physician grinned sheepishly and took a few swift strides after the
dancing figure. Silvey waited until he was almost at the wire railroad
fence, and retreated to one of the back yards on the opposite side of
the embankment. As the doctor retraced his steps to the sidewalk, the
boys gazed thoughtfully at the depleted supply of ammunition. John
turned to Skinny Mosher.
"Take that kid away before he gets us into more trouble. He's always
spoiling our fun, anyway. What'll we do now."
"Let's go over to the street and get chased," Perry Alford suggested, as
Skinny started towards home with his sniffling, reluctant brother.
They apportioned the last of the cucumbers and crossed the tracks in
single file, pausing now to balance fantastically on the shining steel
rails, and now to skip flat, smooth pebbles against the black, weathered
girders which supported the block signals. As they reached the home
precincts, a still-panting figure joined them.
"Has he gone?"
John nodded. "He was only bluffing. Might have known that. We're going
over to the flats."
"The flats" was the largest building on their home street. Built on the
corner, in the shape of a huge, four-storied, red brick "C," it was
really composed of a number of apartments with separate entrances with a
common, cement-paved inside court on which the back porches fronted. The
basements were given over to boiler rooms, laundry tubs, and storerooms,
linked by long, twisting, badly lighted corridors which formed excellent
hiding places for the boys in time of pursuit.
The gang gathered noisily just off the corner and waited for victims. A
gray-haired, poorly clad woman shuffled past. Sid raised his arm. Silvey
whispered a protest. "That's old lady Allen. Has the rheumatism. Leave
her alone."
John broke into a gleeful chortle. "Look what's coming, fellows."
The cause of his exultation was a callow youth of sixteen, whose father
had met with a sudden wave of prosperity and was now trying to sell his
rather modest home that he might move to a more exclusive neighborhood.
The son was inclined to patronize old acquaintances and affected a
multitude of expensive tailored clothes and a light cane. John eyed the
gray, immaculately pressed suit appreciatively and let fly.
The boy wheeled in surprise, then stooped to pick up his hat.
"You fellows had better cut that out," he blustered, as he straightened
the soft, felt brim.
"Who's going to make us?" Silvey jeered, as his cucumber hit the neat
lapel.
"Just do that again. I'll show you."
A volley of the juicy missiles greeted his words. He charged upon the
boys, who fled to the haven of the darkest of the corridors and took
refuge in an empty outer storeroom. There they barricaded themselves and
awaited his coming.
"Ya-a-ah," John taunted, as he heard heavy breathing through the door.
"What'll you do now?"
"Just wait until dinner time."
"Not going to make us stay that long, are you? Please don't be mean."
The elder boy deigned no reply. John raised the little window which
fronted the street and grinned. One by one the gang climbed through the
narrow opening to the sidewalk and left their vindictive enemy guarding
the empty storeroom.
Across the street from the flats stood the building which housed the
corner drug store and "Neighborhood Hall," used according to season for
high-school dances, minstrel shows, and fraternal meetings. They
assembled at the entrance, which commanded an excellent view of all
approaches leading from the flats, and awaited developments.
A little girl rounded the corner with sundry grocer's packages in her
arms. She noticed that the boys were gathered in the excited group,
which always spelled danger to unescorted maidens, but held bravely on.
As she passed, Silvey yelled exultantly. Perry Alford threw wildly and
hit the ground by her feet. Red's missile caught one nervous, white
little hand and made her drop a bag of eggs to the sidewalk. John raised
his arm, then lowered it as if paralyzed.
It was Louise!
"Quit that fellows," he cried, seizing on the first excuse which came
into his mind. "She's a little girl."
Silvey looked at him in blank amazement. "What of it?" he ejaculated.
"Ain't the first time you've made one cry."
John's lips tightened. "Don't care if it isn't," he snapped. "Stop that,
Sid, or I'll punch your face in."
He threw his own cucumber into the gutter to show that his was a
peaceful errand and walked hastily over to the sobbing figure.
"They'll leave you alone," he assured her. "Let me pick up your eggs."
They were smashed beyond all hope of salvage, but he gathered the
fragments of shell, with as much of the dust-laden yolks as he could
scrape up, and placed them gravely in the torn, soggy bag. Then he took
the bread and the butter from her very gently and turned his back on the
gang.
"I'll carry them all for you," he said, almost in a whisper. "Let's go
home now."
She acquiesced silently. They strolled down the leafy walk. John's back
tingled unpleasantly, for he expected a shower of missiles. Louise's
weeping ceased, save for an occasional sniffle. At last Silvey roused
himself from the amazed silence into which his chum's actions had thrown
him, and seized upon the solution of the mystery.
"Johnny an' Lou-i-ise! Johnny an' Lou-i-ise!"
Louise flushed scarlet and bit her lip. John turned and stuck out his
tongue defiantly. An awkward silence followed.
"I'll punch that kid's head off when I catch him," he growled as the
shouts continued. Louise looked up at him shyly.
"I don't mind," she said.
They halted in front of the three-story apartment where her parents
lived. John shifted clumsily from one foot to the other, not knowing how
to make a graceful adieu. The maiden came to his rescue with a
parrot-like imitation of Mrs. Martin's formula for such occasions.
"Thank you very much--and--I'm so glad to make your acquaintance."
Though the words were ridiculously stilted, John turned with a song on
his lips and skipped across to the home porch swing, where his mother
found him a moment later, and made him come in and get washed for
dinner.
That afternoon he walked north to the branch library to turn in his book
on which a six-cent fine impended. With the yellow card in his hand, he
went over to the fiction section of the open shelves. No more Hentys, no
more Optics. He was in love, and love stories he must have.
Silvey, Perry Alford, and Red sauntered up just before supper to find
out how the land lay. They found him stretched out on the porch swing
with the latest acquisition from the library beside him.
"Say, John," Silvey began nervously. He was afraid he had gone a little
too far that morning.
John raised dreamy eyes. What did he care about commonplace declarations
of friendship such as Silvey was making? His head was a-riot with the
thrilling words of the latest love passage between the hero and a
heroine so perfect that her like never existed beyond the covers of a
novel, and the interruption bored him.
"So you see," Perry chimed in as Bill finished, "we didn't want you to
be mad about it."
John waved a magnanimous dismissal. "But don't do it again," he
cautioned apathetically, "'cause--well--she's my girl. That's all."
And again his eyes sought the alluring pages of the book.