WHEREIN HE RESOLVES TO GET MARRIED
The Thursday date for the game with the "Jeffersons" had been selected
in early September, and there had been a tacit truce between the two
factions as a result. For three afternoons of that first week in
November, the "Tigers" sacrificed their games of tops and "Run, sheep,
run" on the altar of the football god, and trooped over to the big lot
as soon as school was dismissed. There, Silvey, self-appointed coach of
the team, expounded the rudiments and the higher attributes of the sport
as culled from a series of ten-cent hand books, and ran the team through
signals and trick formations in a way that would have amused a
university football coach.
Louise went down town with her mother, so the team was deprived of the
support of its feminine rooter on the eventful afternoon. They met in
front of Silvey's. John boasted the one addition made to the equipment
of that first practice when he appeared with a second-hand pair of
shin-guards which he had acquired from a boy at school in exchange for a
dime and an agate shooter. Presently Sid appeared with the football, and
they trooped towards the lot in a compact, determined little group.
As they climbed over the railroad fence on the opposite side of the
tracks, the "Jeffersons," who were as badly equipped as their rivals,
greeted them defiantly. There was a moment or so of conference between
Silvey and the Shultz boy before they tossed for sides on the field.
Then the teams lined up, kicked off, and sweated and toiled and wrangled
through one half of the game without result. Towards the end of the
second period, the heavier invaders began a slow march over the
cinder-strewn ground toward their opponents' goal and victory.
Onward, onward, inch by inch, first down, five (this was the day of
unreformed football), second, three, third, one yard to gain, while the
"Tigers" shouted "Ho-o-old 'em! Ho-o-old 'em!" in desperation. On the
ten-yard line, indicated by stakes driven in the ground at each side of
the field, the lighter eleven braced for a last stand. As the
"Jeffersons'" youthful quarter attempted to pass the ball, Silvey broke
through and knocked the pigskin from his hands towards John, who grabbed
it and ran to the other end of the field for the one and decisive
touchdown of the game.
"Time," called Silvey, striving vainly to make himself heard above the
exultant shouts. "Time, I tell you!" Captain Shultz of the "Jeffersons"
drew out a watch, borrowed from a friend for the occasion, and compared
it with the one in Bill's possession.
The game was over and the "Jeffersons" had lost.
The victors swaggered woodenly around by the ice cream soda shop and art
stores to the home street. No cutting across the tracks for them now;
this was a march of triumph! The vanquished trailed sulkily along, some
twenty feet behind, giving vent now and then to cat-calls of defiance
and disgruntled suggestions that the game would have ended differently
if this or that member had played better. At the corner, Silvey turned.
"We licked you!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "We licked you! We
licked you!"
Shultz raised his voice above the clamor of his team. "Just wait until
we catch you alone. You'll be sorry!"
John shrugged his shoulders. "We'll all stick together coming home from
school. And if they catch just one of us, why, we can maul them, too."
For Shultz's declaration meant that the guerrilla warfare was in full
swing again.
Sid's muscles stiffened and his back began to ache. Silvey owned a
discolored spot over one eye where an opponent had tried to disable him
during a tense moment of the game. John's shin was badly bruised, and
Perry Alford had wrenched his ankle. The other members had minor hurts.
Only Red Brown had, by some miracle, come through the battle unscathed.
"We won," said Silvey happily, as they stopped in front of his house.
"Come on, now, all together!"
They broke into the "Tigers'" exultant war cry, which is very much the
same as that of the football team to which you belonged as a boy:
Sis-boom-bah!
Sis-boom-bah!
"Tigers," "Tigers,"
Rah, rah, rah!
Then they left for their several homes, too worn out to do anything but
rest.
Up in his room John threw himself on the bed with a sigh. His injured
leg hurt terribly--but they'd won. Pity Louise had missed the defeat of
the "Jeffersons." Why did women folks always have to go shopping,
anyway? Only spent a lot of money on hats and other foolishness.
He turned over wearily and found the yellow pig bank leering at him from
the bureau with hungry, malignant eyes. Where was that apportioned two
dollars which he was to earn by the end of the week? Four days had
already elapsed, and the beast's interior was as empty as it had been on
the toy-shop shelf. Why had he bought those lemon drops on Monday? And
the marbles and his rubber spear top? Was there anything left after the
shin-guard purchase? He sat up on the edge of the bed and rummaged in
his pockets. One lonely penny remained from his weekly allowance of a
quarter.
He dropped the coin into the long slot and shook the pig disgustedly.
Two dollars could never be earned by Saturday night. Not even if three
lawns were to be cut, and a half-dozen errands run for the neighbors. He
slammed the big china animal back on the bureau and went down to supper.
The lonely copper had seemed to make the beast sound more hollow than
ever as it rattled against the unglazed interior.
That night the wind veered to the south, and Friday proved to be mild
and sunny, save for a touch of autumnal haze in the air. But not even
this freakish return of summer could rouse him from the grumpy mood
which held over from the night before.
He scanned the front yards on the street as he sulked along to school.
How slowly grass grew in the fall! Not a lawn needed trimming, and as
for freeing them from leaves, the nearly denuded boughs made such
operations unnecessary. Coin of the realm seemed further away than ever.
In the afternoon, the haze thickened and hinted of rain. As he and
Louise sauntered homeward, a drop of water spattered on her cheek.
Another hit him on the nose, and it was but a short time before the
cement sidewalks were covered with rapidly merging mosaics of a darker
hue.
What luck! Dimes and even quarters, quickly and easily earned, were
within his grasp. He left Louise at the apartment entrance and dashed
into his own front hall in great excitement.
"I've got the umbrellas," he shouted, as he struggled into his raincoat.
"I'm going out with them."
"Don't take my good one," Mrs. Fletcher cautioned. But he was beyond
earshot, best umbrella and all, before the words were out of her mouth.
Down the water-glazed street he ran, its dust now laid by the
refreshing, pounding torrent, past the barrier of the railroad ticket
office, thanks to the friendly agent, and up the worn steps to the
station platform. Other boys were there, each with two or three
umbrellas, who viewed the newcomer with disfavor. Ere long, each
suburban train from town would discharge its quota of daintily dressed
shoppers, pallid office clerks and stenographers and prosperous business
men. Not one of them would carry protection from the soaking rain, and
competition between the juvenile vendors threatened to become acute.
A lean, light suburban engine pulled in amid a cloud of escaping steam
and a hissing of airbrakes. John spied a tall slender woman in a car
doorway arranging a paper over her hat, and raced along beside the
platform until it came to a halt.
"Umbrella home, lady?"
She nodded. "To the hotel."
Behind her loomed a tall, slightly bowed, black-haired lawyer whom John
had seen on the long, wooden veranda of that substitute for home more
times than he could count on his ten fingers. He, too, took advantage of
a rented shelter. Together the couple made their way down the dripping
steps while John followed exultantly. Two at once--and the hotel but a
scant block and a half away! At the broad entrance, they paused.
"How much do I owe you, little boy?" asked the lady, with a smile.
"Dime," was the laconic answer. Another train was due in ten minutes and
there was no time to waste. She opened a dainty leather purse, while the
lawyer paid his debt from a pocketful of small change. Twenty cents at
once. That _was_ luck. A moment later John was sprinting back at top
speed.
No double fare the next time, but the helpless stenographer lived a
street farther west, and each additional block meant another nickel
according to the unwritten umbrella tariff.
"Fifteen cents, madam," he demanded.
She retreated discreetly to the shadow of the apartment hallway to dive
into her stocking bank, while he watched two bedraggled sparrows on the
sidewalk until she reappeared.
On his return, he found the trains running on the five-minute, rush-hour
schedule. Each carried its revenue of small change for the eager,
clamoring boys. Once, a gray-haired, kindly-eyed man gave John a quarter
and would receive no change, and another time a friend of his mother's
did likewise. But for the most part, ten- and fifteen-cent fees were his
lot.
Rifts in the misty clouds to the west appeared, which hinted of an end
to the rain. Nevertheless, he jingled the change in his pocket
light-heartedly. He had made more in the brief eighty minutes than he
could cutting the Langley's lawn, or by other juvenile chores which
would consume a like time. And, if he were fortunate, there was still
time for another customer before the storm ceased.
He found her. She was dressed in some rustling brown taffeta stuff and
carried her hat in a carefully pinned page of newspaper. Her face was
sunken and lined and rouged to lessen the ravages of age, and her hair
was palpably mismatched. Moreover, instinct warned that his offer would
be refused, for she was one of the tall, skinny folks. Nevertheless, he
approached her.
"Umbrella home, lady? Can I take you home under an umbrella?"
He could. Instantly all criticism of her personal appearance vanished.
True, she might be trying to keep up appearances like the old-maid
teacher who scolded knowledge into the eighth-grade class, but she was
willing to spend money for his benefit, and that made all the difference
in the world.
Past the hotel they went, and down the five long, successive blocks of
gray stone university buildings which flanked that side of the
boulevard. John's spirits rose. His last was to be a quarter customer,
at the least. Then they turned southward and dodged pools of water in
the muddy street crossings and on the walks for another two squares. She
halted at a grimy, run-down apartment building and closed the umbrella.
Thirty-five cents! He opened his mouth to name the fee, but she
interrupted him.
"Here's the umbrella, little boy." She stepped into the stuffy,
badly-lighted hallway. "Thank you very much for taking me home."
Before he could say a word of protest, the weather-beaten oak door swung
to in his face and the lady fled up the stairs.
When he had recovered from his surprise, he stamped angrily in after
her. What should he do? He wanted that money. He didn't care if she had
disappeared. He'd ring the bell and keep on ringing it until she
answered or the batteries gave out. But which bell? The building was
four-storied, with flats front and rear, and which of the cramped
apartments did she occupy? And there were dozens of roomers' cards over
the dusty speaking tubes. To find her was impossible. He had been
tricked, and tricked nicely, and he might as well go back.
When he was a block from the station the rain changed to a sudden fine
drizzle and halted. The umbrella business was ended for the afternoon.
Nevertheless, he had been fairly successful. If that old maid had paid
what was due him, the small change in his pocket would have totaled a
dollar and thirty cents. But ninety-five cents wasn't bad, as it was.
He sauntered in from the dark street a few minutes later and stacked the
dripping umbrellas in the rack in the hallway. Then he burst into the
kitchen to tell his mother the news.
"What will you do with all that money, son?"
He blinked a moment at the brilliancy of the gas-light, and guessed he'd
save most of it. At that Mrs. Fletcher smiled, and he grinned sheepishly
back. She had probably guessed the secret. Mothers had uncanny ways of
seeing right into fellows, and he might as well tell her now.
"Louise and I are going to be married when I'm twenty-one," he blurted.
"I'm starting to save now, and she's going to get her mother to teach
her how to cook beefsteaks and keep house."
Then he ducked from her amused kisses and ran up to his room. Down came
the pig bank from the resting place on the bureau, and out on the white
coverlet came the result of his work. Piece by piece the money
disappeared in the narrow slot, until not even a nickel was left for
lemon drops at the school store. Then he shook the porker with
satisfaction. It didn't sound so empty now, and the hungry look seemed
to have disappeared from the yellow china face. The eyes held an
expression of sleepy content, if an insensate bit of china could do such
a thing.
Ninety-six cents was a good start. But he'd have to hustle every minute
of Saturday morning. The advent of autumn had so discouraged the growth
of grass on the home street that he would have to invade Southern
Avenue. Surely he could find some sort of a job on that long,
well-groomed street.
After breakfast he sneaked off to drag the lawn-mower from its storage
place in the basement. The rattle and bang of the iron frame against the
area steps caught Mrs. Fletcher's alert ear. She raised the little
side-pantry window and looked out as he lifted the implement up on the
walk.
"John!"
"Yes, Mother?" A sheepish note crept into his voice. "Taking the mower
out of the basement; that's all."
"Where are you going with it?"
Oh, nowhere in particular. He hoped to earn a little money; that was
all.
"Is your room picked up?"
"No."
"And the front porch has to be hosed off for Sunday; never mind the
neighbors until my work's finished, son."
Mothers must have forty-'leven pairs of ears to catch fellows the way
they did. He stopped to argue with her, but she shook her head
impatiently.
"That won't do a bit of good, John. You're just wasting time when you're
talking this way."
She was right. And wasting time meant just so many minutes less in which
to earn a dollar and four cents. He scampered upstairs and pitched the
book which had lain under the bed since a certain clandestine
night-reading session into the case. Next, his odds and ends of clothing
and ties were thrown on the closet floor with a prayer that they might
not be discovered before he made his escape. With his bureau top set
hastily in order, he reported for duty below. Out with the hose-reel and
up with the nozzle on the porch. A twist of the key, and the water
spurted forth while his mother watched the procedure in amazement. He
was taking five minutes for work which consumed twenty-five, ordinarily!
But when the water splashed against the sun-blistered clapboards of the
veranda wall, his spurt of energy diminished. He adjusted the nozzle
until the fine spray came from the hose and watched the miniature
rainbow in the bright sunlight. An earnest spider was repairing a web up
under the eaves in anticipation of coming storms, and John shifted back
to the hard stream to dislodge the industrious spinner. The old cat
trotted around from the back porch and made faces at a squirrel which
had strayed from the park to enjoy the more munificent bounty which the
kind-hearted housewives and children on the street offered. He shot the
quarrel-quelling stream in their direction, and the pair scampered away
to safety. As yet a good half of the porch was untouched by water, and
he dropped the hose to the floor with the nozzle pointed toward the
baseboard, while little rivulets trickled over the dust-strewn boards
until they joined larger streams, just as the little black river lines
in his school maps did.
There was a sudden, sharp tapping at the window which fronted the porch.
Mrs. Fletcher's voice jerked him from the clouds of miniature
geographical research to the realities of his task.
"John! Half an hour's gone already. Do get the hose reeled up!"
A few hasty strokes of the broom--his mother's best, taken unknown to
her--obliterated all traces of the water systems, and the hard spray was
splashed against the windows just long enough to splatter the sashes
well. The dirtiest places on the steps met with a half-hearted scrub or
two before he reeled up the hose. A moment later, with the rake over one
shoulder, and the lawn mower trailing noisily behind him, he set off to
find Silvey.
A noisy whistle in front of his chum's house brought no answer. An
ear-splitting clamor of "Oh, Silvey-e-e-e; Oh, Silvey-e-e-e, come on
out. Come on out!" brought his mother to the door.
"Bill's gone down town with his father," she said crossly. "Won't be
back until dinner time."
Shucks; everything was going wrong. If Silvey wasn't on hand, he'd have
to pitch in alone.
Around the corner he went, the mower still beating a noisy tattoo over
the pavement, past the big new apartment building with flats which
actually rented for a hundred dollars a month, and down to the long row
of older houses, erected when land was cheap, and set far back from the
walk; still on past foot after foot of trim grass plots, through a
mud-puddle in the street which held more water than was good for the
already rusty blades, and across to the opposite sidewalk before he
found a prospect of employment.
He swung back the gate and tiptoed up the weathered steps. The window
shades were down and the cobwebs hung thick on the porch railings and
under the eaves. Yet the place was occupied, for he had noticed a
homeless cat dragging an unsavory meal from a well-filled garbage pail
at the side. He rang the bell once, twice, thrice, before the door
opened.
"Want the lawn cut?" he asked of the wrinkled, tremulous dame who faced
him.
She shook her head, angry at being disturbed. He walked down the walk
mournfully.
It was clear that there was no revenue to be gained this day. So he
turned toward the home street and dropped the mower into the area way
just loudly enough to bring Mrs. Fletcher to the side window.
"That you, son? Run up to the corner and get some lamb chops, that's a
good boy." She tossed him a half-dollar. "And get ready for dinner when
you come back."
He set off thoughtfully, for the problem of earning still annoyed him.
He hated to fall down on the newly made resolution the very first week.
If it were only winter and a heavy snow falling! Then he'd make money
quickly enough, but in late autumn--why folks wanted to walk to the
corner for groceries themselves because the tang in the clear, snappy
weather made the errand enjoyable!
As the door of the butcher shop closed behind him, he saw Shultz, leader
of the "Jeffersons" and sworn enemy, tugging at a heavy suitcase as he
struggled to keep pace with the athletic young lady to whom it belonged.
Why couldn't he do likewise? Three ten-cent suitcase jobs would bring
his capital to a dollar and twenty-four cents, and that was better than
nothing.
As soon as he had eaten, he left the house on the trot for the suburban
station, where he had seen his football rival. He waited in front of the
three iron turnstiles, now dancing up and down, now watching the ants in
a hill which was forming between two paving blocks, and now scanning the
thrice reread headlines of the papers on the unpainted news stand by the
station entrance. A gentleman came with golf sticks bound for the park
links; there came ladies innumerable who had been delayed on their
shopping expedition--and still no sign of employment. Locals came and
went, and expresses followed on twenty-minute runs until his memory
failed in counting them, before a puffy, white-moustached gentleman in
tweeds grunted a noisy passage down the platform steps.
"Satchel carried, sir?"
"How far is it to the hotel."
John explained. The traveler should have left the train at the station
three blocks to the south. But it wasn't so very far, even at that.
"Shall I carry it for you?" he concluded.
The man nodded jerkily and paused to light a cigarette. As they left,
Shultz sauntered up and stood aghast at this invasion of his territory.
"Hey!" he ejaculated finally.
John held his course, grip in either hand. He was a little nervous, but
his business rival dared not take revenge while his patron was with him.
After that--well, he guessed he could take care of himself if that
"tough"--a term of endearment used by the "Tigers"--bothered him.
A lapse of ten minutes found him fingering a quarter as he stood on the
broad hotel steps. Would he go back, when such fees were in prospect?
You bet. That dirty-faced kid had no mortgage on the place. He'd like to
see any trouble between them. He would call out the "Tigers," he would!
Shultz was pacing up and down in front of the station when John came up.
The expression on his face was far from pleasant, and the boy began to
regret his fit of bravado. But shucks, that tough wouldn't dare do
anything. He stopped at the turnstiles once more, and Shultz glared at
him angrily.
"What you trying to do?"
John explained. He wanted to make a little pocket money.
"Well you can't here. G'wan home before I smash your face!"
"Won't," stubbornly. "Got just as much right as you here."
There was a pause. "Well are you going?" asked the "Jefferson's"
captain.
"No!"
"I'll make you." He advanced, fists doubled. They circled around and
around on the pavement, each looking for an opening through the other's
guard. Suddenly the bigger boy lunged forward and his fist went true to
the mark--John's nose. They sparred again, now feinting forward, now
stepping backward, like two young turkey cocks. A tall, blue-clad,
brass-buttoned figure rounded the corner, and Shultz raised the alarm.
"Cheese it, the cop!"
They broke for cover, each in the direction of home and parental
protection, while the guardian of the peace stood and laughed at the
fleeing figures.
Once well down the street, John pulled up, panting, and rubbed his nose.
That kid had certainly hit it. The organ hurt like the mischief, and
felt as if it were three sizes too big. He hoped it wouldn't be like
that at school, Monday.
He heard a familiar voice, "Hello!"
He turned quickly. Louise, and at this, of all times!
"What you been doing?" She looked at his face curiously.
He forced a smile. "Fight, that's all."
"Did he hurt you much?"
"Only here." John pointed to the injured appendage and added, "Gee, you
ought to see him. Black eye, and his lip's bleeding something fierce!"
His lady must never know that he came out second best in the battle.
Suddenly he turned a-tremble from the reaction of his feelings. He
wished his feminine playmate down town, over in the park, any place
where she couldn't talk to him. He wanted to get home, to have mother's
gentle hands lay cooling bandages on his nose, and his eyes began to
fill with tears. For in spite of his air of defiance, he had been beaten
and the knowledge stung him into a poignant longing for sympathy.
Louise, with the intuition of her sex, changed the subject.
"Look what I've got," she held a brown package at arm's length. "Sugar
from the grocer's. Mother's going to teach me how to bake, this
afternoon. Want to watch?"
He nodded gratefully and went with her to the flat where that memorable
party had been held. In the airy kitchen, Mrs. Martin instructed Louise
in the mysteries of mixing flour, spices, and molasses into that sticky
mass which composes the dough for delicious, old-fashioned gingerbread.
John stood at the young lady's side and watched dreamily. Just wait
until he had that thousand dollars saved and could rent a kitchen of his
own!
After the mixture was poured into the pan, the two children, spoons in
hand, scraped the mixing dish of its residue of uncooked delicacy, and
decided that the effort would prove a huge success.
"Wait until it's baked," said Louise, "and you can have a piece."
John was transported into a seventh heaven of ecstasy, and followed her
into the parlor. They sat on the floor and played dominoes while the
minutes flew past.
"That's five games for me," Louise broke out exultantly. John nodded and
gazed listlessly around the room. On the bottom shelf of the magazine
table was a red and black checkerboard.
"Let's play that," he pointed with one grimy finger.
Louise demurred. "I don't know how."
"I'll teach you," her victim said eagerly. So she did penance for her
victories until Mrs. Martin appeared in the doorway and smiled down at
them.
"Come, kiddies. It's ready now."
They broke for the kitchen in a wild dash, leaving boards and men on the
carpet as they had finished with them.
Half an hour later, John sauntered into the house, his hat cocked
exultantly over one ear, and his mouth redolent of savory spices. He
heard voices in the dining-room and stuck his head in between the
portières.
"That you, John?" asked his mother. "Where on earth have you been?"
"Up at Louise's." His spirits were too high to notice the admonitory
note in her voice. "She baked a cake all by herself, and when it was
done, I had a great big piece. And Mother," his voice rose proudly at
the memory of that effort, "it was better'n any ginger cake you ever
made in all your life!"
When he had placed his napkin in his ring and gone out on the front
porch, Mrs. Fletcher looked at her husband and her husband smiled back
at her.
"The little imp," she murmured finally.
But it was the first foretaste of the time when another woman should
dispossess her of her son's love, and she liked this touch in the
childish comedy not at all.
[Illustration: "16-31-4-7-82-6-21----"]