HE GOES TO A HALLOWEEN PARTY
Of course, he accepted. The temptation of a whole evening in the lady's
company was too great. But no sooner had he dropped his reply in the
corner mail box than he began to consider the cost.
The doormats and porch furniture of the neighborhood would go unharmed
for aught that he might do. No raids on the flats' garbage cans, no
ringing of doorbells, or raining peas through open windows. And only
through the vainglorious boasting of the gang on Sunday morning would he
know of the success of his string-and-can trick. Shucks! He was out of
it all.
After breakfast, Mrs. Fletcher glanced at the clear sunlight on the
house across the road and announced that John's Saturday tasks would be
suspended in honor of the day. He raced up to the Silveys, and found the
expedition for cans starting out under the leadership of his chum. Once
in the park, the quartette broke into impromptu games of tag, dashing
over the moist grass, or halting to puff lustily that they might watch
their breaths in the clear, frosty air. Tiring of this as they came to
the site of an old exposition bicycle race-track, they ran up and down
the grass-covered sides until Perry reminded them that the morning would
be over before they knew it, and started on a dogtrot for the goal.
Cans there were in profusion, also a fascinating array of wreckage of
other nature in this dump, which lay just north of the park. John picked
up a suitable container.
"Get 'em like this," he ordered Perry and Sid. "And be sure they don't
leak."
As the two walked obediently off, he prowled among the debris of his own
accord. Silvey raised a shout from the water's edge.
"Look-e-e." He held up a chair minus one leg and a back for John's
admiring approval. "Won't this be great for the shack?"
Sid and Perry turned and took a few steps toward Bill.
"Say," ordered the president and his secretary in unison, "get busy with
those cans. What do you suppose you came over here for?"
A little later, John discovered a pair of warped, rusty bicycle wheels,
and hastened over to Silvey with them.
"Can't we make a peachy wagon with these if we find two more?" he said
excitedly. "Bet you anything she'll go faster'n the fastest one on the
street."
Sid came up, his arms filled with tins. "That's enough," he blurted. "If
you want any more, you can get 'em yourselves." He looked down sullenly
at his rust-spotted waist. "Always the way. We do the work and you come
along and boss."
"Well," retorted John magnificently as Perry dropped his collection
beside Sid's, "we didn't _have_ to come at all, did we?"
They apportioned the rusty objects and the broken chair and wheels
between them and sauntered slowly homewards. It was easily dinner time
before the street was reached, and the party broke up as soon as the
booty was deposited in the Silvey back yard. John lingered a moment to
help Silvey carry the junk into the "Tigers'" club house.
"Gee," Bill exclaimed as he gazed at the nondescript jumble, "I'll bet
you it'll be a peachy time tonight."
John nodded ecstatically. Then a lump caught in his throat and held him
speechless for a moment. After all, he was out of the fun, and he hadn't
the heart to tell his chum, either. He turned to leave.
That afternoon the clan gathered again on the turf beside the shack and
went over the evening's campaign. The new family in the large green
house across the road still had a big swing suspended from the veranda
ceiling. If they didn't remove it, the boys intended to. Sid DuPree
reported that the gate on Otton's back fence could be lifted from its
hinges very easily. It would be great fun to replace the bit of porch
furniture with it. As for doormats, the preoccupied neighborhood doctor
had left his out last Halloween, and could be depended on to do it
again; also, there were the apartment entrances, each with a heavy
rubber mat in front of the stone steps. As for the can-and-string trick,
the frame dwelling where the fat little tailor lived was marked for the
experiment, as were a half dozen others.
"Gee," chuckled Silvey, "don't you wish it was dark now?"
John fingered his pea shooter wistfully.
At last the welcome dusk blotted out the long shadows on the railroad
tracks and the "Tigers" filed stealthily out of the yard to commence the
skirmishing before supper, which always came as a prelude to the more
important evening campaign. They darted up and down steps, rang
doorbells, and raised eery cat-calls which echoed between the houses,
and pelted pedestrians to their hearts' content.
Presently the door of the big green house swung open and threw a shaft
of golden light across the leaf-strewn macadam, over against the Alford
dwelling, which stood opposite. Four white-sheeted figures danced down
the steps and paraded on the walk in front of the home lot, tooting
horns and performing antics in a manner which no set of self-respecting
ghosts ever dreamed of.
"Her kids," John snapped scornfully. "'Member how she chased us out of
the street last Saturday because we were making too much noise with our
tops? Come on!"
They divided silently into two parties. The one slipped across the road
on tiptoe and hugged the shadows of the houses as they advanced, halting
finally under the shelter of an adjacent porch. The other walked boldly
some distance down the walk on the far side of the street, crossed over,
also, and executed a similar maneuver.
Suddenly a pea caught the biggest of the four apparitions on the nose
and caused him to drop his horn to the sidewalk. As he stooped to pick
it up, a volley sent his younger brothers and sister scurrying
porchward, amid cries of "Mamma! Mamma! Mamma!" The "Tigers" yelled
gleefully. John forgot himself so far as to dance incautiously into the
path of light. Then from the shadows of the porch swing--that same swing
which was to transport itself mysteriously far down the street in the
evening--emerged the tall, angular figure which had driven them away
that other Saturday.
"Jiggers!" came the shout of warning.
"John Fletcher!" That doughty leader retreated to the shelter of the
shadows. "I'll telephone your mother this minute. Such a lot of bullies
I've never seen before in my life!"
The boys were in for it. Nevertheless, they listened to the prolonged
tirade with suppressed amusement. Its conclusion was an order to the
quartette to go down on the walk again.
"They won't touch a hair of your heads now," she boasted unwisely.
Again came the stinging volleys on the sheeted figures. A few of the
peas flew by chance, or otherwise, in the direction of the protectress,
herself.
"Come into the house this minute," she called to her brood. "I'll fix
'em."
The door slammed angrily. Through a front window, the boys could see her
at the telephone in the lighted hallway. They redoubled the bombardment
of the house in defiance.
Across the street a door creaked. Mrs. Alford's voice carried to where
the excited little group stood.
"Per-e-e-e, it's nearly seven. Supper is ready. Come in and get washed
right away!"
The "Tigers" gasped and dispersed quickly. Half-past six was the
deadline for the evening meal with most of them, and parental scoldings
were in order.
"See you at eight," Silvey called as he turned north.
John stopped short. Hang that party!
"I w-won't be with the gang," he quavered.
"What?" Bill could scarcely believe his ears. John explained haltingly.
"That kid! I knew she'd make trouble."
The murder was out; the worst was over with. But it would never do to
let his chum think that he regretted the choice.
"Oh, I don't know." John gathered courage and glibness as he went on.
"Saw two ice cream freezers going in the back way this afternoon, and
Jiminy, Silvey, her mother's some cook. Louise says [he hadn't laid eyes
on that lady since Friday] she's just baked four chocolate layer cakes
with nuts and candies in the frosting. And there's lots of other things.
Now, don't you wish you were me?"
Silvey shrugged his shoulders and admitted that the entertainment had
its alluring side.
"Chocolate cake," he repeated. "Just think, all you can eat."
There was an envious silence.
"Strawberry ice cream. Three helpings to a fellow; and I'll have more,
'cause I wouldn't let you throw cucumbers at Louise."
His chum's face grew wistful.
"S'long," said John exuberantly. He had not only converted the scoffer,
but he now found that the gang's plans for the evening no longer held a
charm for him. What a peach of a time he would have at the Martins'!
Mrs. Fletcher greeted him with a suppressed smile as he came in.
"Mrs. Riley telephoned," she began reprovingly.
"Old sorehead!" he exclaimed. "Didn't hurt 'em any."
The maternal smile broadened. There was little sympathy between that
quarrelsome lady and the other mothers of the street, anyway. "But you
shouldn't torment little children like that, son. It isn't manly."
John murmured a few sheepish words under his breath, and asked tactfully
if supper were ready.
"Not quite. Why?"
"Have you forgotten the party?"
She shook her head. "You'll find your blue serge suit all cleaned and
waiting for you on your bed. But John, dear, do be a little more careful
next time you eat candy. I had a terrible time with those spots."
After supper, he ran up to his room. There lay the suit, true evidence
of his mother's thoughtful kindness. As he drew off his school
knickerbockers, he noticed that his stockings had sagged, small-boy
fashion, and formed a little roll of cloth just above his shoe tops. He
pulled them up. How on earth had all that mud gotten there? In a moment
he was at the head of the stairs, shouting, "Mother, Mother,
Moth-a-a-a-r! Where are some clean stockings?" and went off to her room
in search of them. His boots, too, were dusty and scratched; how long
was it since he had blackened them?
A five-minute session with the shoe-shining outfit, heretofore despised
as a useless nuisance, made them glisten as did the kitchen stove after
that Saturday polishing task had been completed. Before him stood the
washstand with its cold marble basin, the soap trays, washrags,
toothbrushes, and other instruments of torture. He turned on the water
and considered a moment as to just how far he should extend the
waterline. Still, he was going to a party, her party, and his appearance
must be beyond reproach. So he soaped his face vigorously and ran his
wet hands around to the back of his neck. Then he surveyed as much of
the result of his labors as he could see with a new satisfaction.
He slipped into his little wash blouse hastily. The alarm clock
indicated fifteen minutes of the hour and no time was to be lost. But
which of his four ties should he wear? His blue one was wrinkled because
it had lain beneath the bed for over a week before he had resurrected
it. The tan-and-black striped one given him by his uncle was in equally
bad condition. And Louise had said she hated green. After all, his
brilliant crimson four-in-hand was the nicest. It contrasted with his
dark suit the best, anyway.
He presented himself a sheepishly smiling little figure with neatly
parted hair, for his mother's inspection. She looked up with a smile.
"If it isn't our little John! And so clean that I scarcely know him.
Come here and let me look at your ears."
They were immaculate! Mrs. Fletcher exchanged a glance of mock surprise
with her husband. "It's the first time that's happened since he was old
enough to wash himself."
John, junior, seized his hat and slammed the door as he sprang down the
front steps. Why did grown-ups always carry on so? There was nothing
unusual in washing one's ears, was there?
He stopped across the street from the building to watch for a moment.
The Martin parlor on the second floor was ablaze with light.
Occasionally an adult moved now and then within range of the windows as
she shifted chairs to and fro. A boy from Southern Avenue, with whom he
had a speaking acquaintance, walked up and into the entrance with an air
of unnatural gravity. John could see him give his tie a twitch as he
rang the front bell. A brougham drove up and a little girl encased in
innumerable fluffy wraps was escorted up the steps by her mother. More
girls followed from time to time. Some skipped merrily up to the door;
others sauntered more slowly, tittering excitedly as they went along.
John decided that it was time to go in.
Up the heavily carpeted stairway, with its ornately panelled wainscoting
and brown wallpaper, a half turn to the right, and the goal of the
evening lay before him. The stout woman whom he had seen silhouetted in
the window greeted him with a gracious smile.
"So this is the John Fletcher of whom Louise is always talking!"
A maid, subsidized for the evening, took his hat and coat away to some
mysterious recess. Mrs. Martin led him into the parlor, lighted to a
soft glow by deftly shaded electric bulbs.
"Now let me introduce you," she said. "This is Martha Gill." He bowed
awkwardly to the lady of the carriage. "And this, Ella Black." So it
went, all down the smiling, giggling circle, as he promptly forgot each
name in the presence of a new beauty.
He joined the boys with a sigh of relief. They stood in an awkward group
near the piano, and grinned and poked each other furtively in the ribs,
and made mocking allusions to half-known juvenile love affairs until
Mrs. Martin reentered with Louise.
The little girl had never appeared so daintily bewitching to John; no,
not even on that memorable first day at school. Her long, graceful curls
were caught in a big, blue silk bow which matched her dress, and her
eyes were a-dance with the excitement of her first party. She greeted
the company with a shy, quick smile and sat down in the chair nearest
her exultant worshiper. A constrained silence took possession of the
little gathering again.
If the children were to enjoy themselves at all, something must be done
to put them at their ease. Mrs. Martin clapped her hands loudly.
"Who likes 'Musical chairs'?" she asked.
The little girls applauded vociferously. The boys, as became members of
the more reserved sex, nodded condescendingly. While not as exciting as
wrestling, or "Run, sheep, run," the game would pass the time away. In a
moment they were sent flying to the different rooms in the flat after
straight chairs of all sizes and descriptions, while Mrs. Martin
supervised the formation of the long line which extended into the hall.
"Now," said she, as she stepped over to the piano, "is there anyone who
doesn't know how to play this game?"
No fear of kill-joy amateurs with "Musical chairs." The children had
become experts at the pastime through other parties innumerable. She
seated herself at the instrument and ran her fingers over the keys.
Slowly the procession started. Little girls lingered as long as possible
by each inviting seat. Boys scurried past the chairs facing in the
opposite direction, or slid around the treacherous ends lest they be
caught. Still the waltz strains swung onward until they seemed eternal
to the anxious players. Then a false note, another, a pause, and a wild
scramble for safety. Bashful maidens sat on trousered knees and
scrambled up after still vacant places. Other players squabbled for the
possession of contested chairs. At last the babel died away, and another
cry arose:
"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny Fletcher's out of it."
It was always the way; he was ever too reluctant to dispossess a girl of
a nearly won prize to be a success at the game. But he took up a
position beside the pianist and watched with amused interest. It was
really just as good fun as being a participant.
Gradually all were eliminated save the Southern Avenue boy and Louise.
The music began again under Mrs. Martin's nimble fingers, and swelled in
volume like the notes of a church organ. Then it dragged and paused just
long enough to send Louise flying to the seat before it picked up the
fateful melody. Suddenly, without hint of a finish in the throbbing,
rapidly beating march, there came the end. Louise found herself standing
with the high-wooden back toward her, while the Southern Avenue
contestant yelled triumphantly from his throne.
"Shucks!" said John in disgust. "Why didn't he let her have it? I
would."
Next came "A tisket, a tasket, a green and yellow basket." The fun grew
fast and furious. No standing aloof in a corner of the room for the boys
now. They enjoyed themselves too well, as each, in turn, chased, or was
chased by some nimble-footed maiden around the circle. There followed
"Thimble, thimble, who's got the thimble," and then Mrs. Martin's even
voice:
"Perhaps some boy will suggest a game."
The winner of "Musical chairs," emboldened by his triumph, called out,
"Kiss the pillow!"
Little shrieks and cries of "Won't play!" arose from some of the girls.
Others maintained a coy silence. Eventually the whole company joined;
that is, all save John. He saw no fun in such pastime. What was the use
of kneeling on a pillow and kissing, for example, homely Ella Black?
Other boys might, if they wished. There was but one divinity worthy of
his homage, and he would pay none of it to other maidens.
So he followed Mrs. Martin into the dining-room, to that lady's great,
though secret, merriment, and helped her arrange the plates and the
spoons and napkins for the refreshments which were to follow later. The
shouts from the parlor rose louder and louder.
Then came a sudden silence. Mrs. Martin turned towards the hall. Surely
they didn't need her assistance again! As she passed the doorway, cries
of "Post-office," "let's play 'Post-office,'" broke forth, and she
returned to the table with a satisfied smile. Evidently the members of
the party were furnishing their own amusement with great success.
Louise, her curls bobbing excitedly, darted into the room and seized
John by the arm.
"Come on," she begged, for she was afraid he wasn't enjoying himself in
the lonely dining-room. "Come on, Johnny. Please!"
It was his lady who commanded, so he obeyed. They had drawn a green
portière across the curtain pole in the doorway until the little alcove
with the bookcase was shut off from the larger room for all practical
intents and purposes. Jimmy, the Southern Avenue boy, waxing more and
more masterful, had appointed himself postmaster, and strutted beside
the narrow opening which remained. And to hold that position in a game
of "Post-office" is no slight thing. Not only is the postmaster the sole
witness of all that transpires behind the secretive curtain, but he is
privileged to turn over the exalted office to a temporary substitute and
hale the lady of his heart forward, if he so desires.
There was no lack of mail. Hardly had the window been declared open than
the postmaster's chum stepped up and, after a moment of whispered
conversation, disappeared behind the portière. Called the master of
ceremonies in stentorian tones:
"Two packages and three letters for Martha Gill!"
Martha Gill shook her head. Cries of "Go ahead" arose from the boys,
while the girls tittered at her embarrassment. At last she gathered up
courage and darted past the sentinel. John stared in amazement. Two
packages and three letters--two hugs and three kisses--what was there in
that overdressed little doll to merit such favor?
Correspondence became fast and furious. Eventually the postmaster called
John forward and whispered a name in his ear before he went into the
alcove. His appointee, concealing his astonishment as best he could,
called out, "Ella Black, Ella Black; four letters for Ella Black!" at
the top of his lungs. But for that much-despised young lady to be so
honored by the social lion of the evening was more than he could
comprehend.
As the postmaster resumed his duties, a voice cried, "Johnny, it's your
turn. You haven't sent any mail yet."
John flushed and shook his head. Tormenting whispers of "'Fraid cat!
'Fraid cat!" carried to where he stood, and some imp of mischief began
that scornful chant:
C'ardy, c'ardy, custard,
Eatin' bread an' mustard!
He clenched his fists. If it must be, he'd show them he was no coward! A
moment later, as he stood tensely in the alcove, came the postmaster's
cry of "One letter for Louise Martin," and the green curtain swung aside
to admit her.
[Illustration: A second helping of ice cream.]
She returned from the sanctum composedly. He waited a moment that they
might not reappear together, and came out with eyes shining and heart
a-beat.
He had kissed her!
He had kissed her!
The entrance of Mrs. Martin and the maid, the one bearing heaping dishes
of ice cream, and the other, as he had unwittingly prophesied, a
luscious, heavily-frosted chocolate cake, brought him down to more
mundane thoughts with alacrity. Indeed, he devoted himself to his
portion with such earnestness that he was able to finish and place his
empty plate innocently under his chair, and wait until his plight caught
the servant's eye.
"Why, haven't you had any, little boy?"
He shook his head mournfully.
"How did Mrs. Martin ever come to skip you? I'll bring you some right
away!"
When she reappeared, he winked heartily at his amazed companions and
settled to the second helping of ice cream.
At last the party came to an end, as all such joyous occasions must, and
he found himself on the sidewalk, looking up once more at the now
darkened parlor. Far up the street came the hooting and jeering of a
gang--possibly his own--although the voices seemed older and strange,
and the gate of the house next the apartment building had disappeared,
leaving empty hinges as mute testimony that some band of witches had
done their work thoroughly and well.
In response to his prolonged ring and joyous kicks on the home door,
Mrs. Fletcher let him in. "Don't pound so hard, son," she cautioned.
"We're not deaf."
"Might a' thought it was some Halloween gang if I didn't," he defended
himself as he threw his hat on the nearest chair.
"Have a good time?" she queried.
"Did I?" The earnestness of his voice left little doubt as to his
sentiments. "Did I? You just bet I did!"
The family always slept late on Sunday morning, but at that, John, worn
out by the excitement of the preceding evening, stirred drowsily when
his father appeared in the doorway.
"Come on, John; time to get up."
"Yes, dad," gazing at him with lackluster eyes. As Mr. Fletcher left, he
turned his face promptly toward the wall and dropped off to sleep again.
"John!" It was his mother's voice this time.
"Uhu."
"Why didn't you get up when your father called you?"
"Aw, let me alone. I don't want any breakfast. Honest, I don't."
"Nonsense! You can take a nap in the afternoon if you want. Come on. I
won't go down stairs until I see you up."
He might as well, then. Mrs. Fletcher was pretty well versed in his
tricks, thanks to long years of experience, and there was little chance
of further delay. So John sat up and dangled his legs over the side of
the bed, while he rubbed his sleep-laden eyes with his fists.
"Need a wet washrag?"
No. He was wide awake now. He listened to her steps on the stairs, and
to the opening of the front door as his father brought in the morning
paper. Then he fingered one stocking abstractedly.
Half an hour later, prompted by Mrs. Fletcher's remonstrances, her
husband came up and found the boy staring with unseeing eyes far over
the railroad tracks into the park. In his hand was the same stocking
which he had picked up so many minutes before.
At last he appeared in the dining-room, to find that his father and
mother had eaten their meal. His hair was half brushed, and his face and
neck untouched by cleansing water (hadn't they been soaped the night
before?), but he set to work on the nearly cold breakfast with a will.
He removed his empty grain saucer from the bread and butter plate and
looked up suddenly.
"Mother," he said irresolutely.
"Yes, son?"
"Say, Mother--how old does a fellow have to be to get married, anyway?"
His father chortled with merriment. John flushed an embarrassed red. His
mother restrained a smile as she answered:
"About twenty-one, dear, and lots of people wait until they're older.
Why?"
"Nothing. Does it cost very much?"
"Cost much?" Mr. Fletcher dropped the Sunday paper to the floor and
looked at his son and heir attentively. "Why, I should say it does. You
ought to have at least a thousand dollars saved before you even _think_
of marrying."
"John," cautioned Mrs. Fletcher reprovingly. "Don't torment the child."
"Let's see," went on her husband, unheeding. "You're ten now. If you
want to marry by the time you're twenty-one, that means you'll have to
earn about a hundred dollars a year from now on. Better begin right
away."
"Raise my allowance, will you, dad?" came the unexpected retort. "I'm
only getting a quarter a week now, and Sid DuPree's father gives him a
whole dollar."
"Young man," was the grave reply. "If you want to support a family,
you'll have to do it of your own accord. You and your mother keep me
busy as it is."
"Give me a quarter, then," the boy persisted. "That's all I want.
Please!"
His father dug into his pockets and brought out the desired coin. "The
nest-egg for the second generation of Fletchers," he grinned. "Catch,
son."
A few minutes later John disappeared in the direction of a little
stationery and toy shop which lay some blocks to the north. But not a
word could Mr. Fletcher draw from him as to the aim of the expedition.
He returned with a mysterious package which he took up to his room and
then sauntered out to Silvey's house.
A little later his mother, who had gone upstairs to dress herself for
dinner, came down to the dining-room where John, senior, still sat
reading.
"John," she said.
"Yes, dear?" with a hasty glance away from the news sheet.
"Do you know," her smile was tender, "there's a big, china pig bank up
on that boy's bureau? I believe he's taken your words in earnest!"