IN JAIL AND OUT AGAIN
That night, when Tom Slade, all unaware of the tragedy which
threatened his young life, shuffled into Billy's garage, he announced
to his followers a plan which showed his master mind as leader of the
gang. "Hey," said he, "I heard Sissy Bennett's mother say she's goin'
ter have a s'prise party fer him Friday night, 'n' d'yer know wot I'm
goin' ter do?"
"Tell him and spoil it fer him?" ventured Joe Flynn.
"Na-a-h!"
"Tick-tack?" asked Slush Ryder.
"Na-ah, tick-tacks is out o' date,"
"Cord ter trip 'em up?"
"Guess agin, guess agin," said Tom, exultantly.
But as no one ventured any further guesses, he announced his plan
forthwith.
"Don't say a word-don't say a word," he ejaculated. "I swiped two o'
thim quarantine signs offen two doors, 'n' I'm gon'er tack one up on
Sissy's door Friday night! Can yer beat it?"
None of them could beat it, for it was an inspiration. To turn away
Master Connover's young guests by this simple but effectual device was
worthy of the leadership qualities of Tom Slade. Having thus advertised
the possibilities of the signs he took occasion to announce,
"I got anoder one, an' I'll sell it fer a dime." But even though he
marked it down to a dime, none would buy, so he announced his intention
of raffling it off.
Before the momentous evening of Connover's party arrived, however,
something else happened which had a curious and indirect effect upon
the carrying out of Tom's plan.
On Wednesday afternoon three men came down Barrel Alley armed with a
paper for Bill Slade. It was full of "whereases" and "now, therefores"
and other things which Bill did not comprehend, but he understood well
enough the meaning of their errand.
The stone which Tom had thrown at John Temple had rebounded with
terrific force!
One man would have been enough, goodness knows, to do the job in hand,
for there were only six or seven pieces of furniture. They got in each
other's way a good deal and spat tobacco juice, while poor helpless,
inefficient Bill Slade stood by watching them.
From various windows and doors the neighbors watched them too, and some
congratulated themselves that their own rents were paid, while others
wondered what would become of poor Tom now.
This was the scene which greeted Tom as he came down Barrel Alley from
school.
"Wot are they doin'?" he asked.
"Can't you see wot they're a-doin'?" roared his father. "'Tain't them
that's doin' it neither, it's _you--you done it!!_ It's _you_
took the roof from over my head, you and old John Temple!" Advancing
menacingly, he poured forth a torrent of abuse at his wretched son.
"The two o' yez done it! You wid yer rocks and him wid his dirty
marshals and judges! I'll get the both o' yez yet! Ye sneakin' rat!"
He would have struck Tom to the ground if Mrs. O'Connor, a mournful
figure in shoddy black, had not crossed the street and forced her way
between them.
"'Twas _you_ done it, Bill Slade, and not him, and don't you lay
yer hand on him--mind that! 'Twas you an' your whiskey bottle done it,
you lazy loafer, an' the street is well rid o' you. Don't you raise
your hand agin me, Bill Slade--I'm not afraid o' the likes o' you. I
tell you 'twas _you_ sent the poor boy's mother to her grave--you
and your whiskey bottle!"
"I--I--ain't scared uv him!" said Tom.
"You stay right here now and don't be foolish, and me an' you'll go
over an' have a cup o' coffee."
Just then one of the men emerged bearing in one arm the portrait of the
late Mrs. Slade and in the other hand Bill Slade's battered but trusty
beer can. The portrait he laid face up on the table and set the can on
it.
Perhaps it is expecting too much to assume that a city marshal would
have any sense of the fitness of things, but it was an unfortunate
moment to make such a mistake. As Mrs. O'Connor lifted the pail a dirty
ring remained on the face of the portrait.
"D'yer see wot yer done?" shrieked Tom, rushing at the marshal. "D'yer
see wot yer done?"
There was no stopping him. With a stream of profanity he rushed at the
offending marshal, grabbing him by the neck, and the man's head shook
and swayed as if it were in the grip of a mad dog.
It was in vain that poor Mrs. O'Connor attempted to intercede, catching
hold of the infuriated boy and calling,
"Oh, Tommy, for the dear Lord's sake, stop and listen to me!"
Tom did not even hear.
The marshal, his face red and his eyes staring, went down into the mud
of Barrel Alley and the savage, merciless pounding of his face could be
heard across the way.
While the other marshals pulled Tom off his half-conscious victim, the
younger contingent came down the street escorting a sauntering blue-coat,
who swung his club leisurely and seemed quite master of the
situation.
"He kilt him, he kilt him!" called little Sadie McCarren.
Tom, his scraggly hair matted, his face streaming, his chest heaving,
and his ragged clothing bespattered, stood hoisting up his suspender,
safe in the custody of the other two marshals.
"Take this here young devil around to the station," said one of the
men, "for assault and battery and interferin' with an officer of the
law in the performance of his dooty."
"Come along, Tom," said the policeman; "in trouble again, eh?"
"Can't yer leave him go just this time?" pleaded Mrs. O'Connor. "He
ain't himself at all--yer kin see it."
"Take him in," said the rising victim, "for interferin' with an officer
of the law in the performance of dooty."
"Where's his folks?" the policeman asked, not unkindly.
It was then the crowd discovered that Bill Slade had disappeared.
"I'll have to take you along," said the officer.
Tom said never a word. He had played his part in the proceedings, and
he was through.
"Couldn't yer leave him come over jist till I make him a cup o'
coffee?" Mrs. O'Connor begged.
"They'll give him his dinner at the station, ma'am," the policeman
answered.
Mrs. O'Connor stood there choking as Tom was led up the street, the
full juvenile force of Barrel Alley thronging after him.
"Wouldn' yer leave me pull my strap up?" he asked the policeman.
The officer released his arm, taking him by the neck instead, and the
last that Mrs. O'Connor saw Tom was hauling his one rebellious strand
of suspender up into place.
"Poor lad, I don't know what'll become uv him now," said Mrs. O'Connor,
pausing on her doorstep to speak with a neighbor.
"And them things over there an' night comin' on," said her companion.
"I wisht that alarm clock was took away--seems as if 'twas laughin' at
the whole thing--like."
"'Tain't only his bein' arrested," said Mrs. O'Connor, "but ther' ain't
no hope for him at all, as I kin see. Ther's no one can
in_floo_ence him."
In Court, the next morning, the judge ruled out all reference to the
disfigurement of Mrs. Slade's portrait as being "incompetent and
irrelevant," and when the "assault and battery" could not be made to
seem "an act done in self-defense and by reason of the imminent peril
of the accused," Tom was taken to the "jug" to spend the balance of the
day and to ponder on the discovery that a "guy" has no right to "slam"
a marshal just because he sets a dirty beer can on his mother's
picture.
His first enterprise after his liberation was a flank move on Schmitt's
Grocery where he stole a couple of apples and a banana, which latter he
ate going along the street. These were his only luncheon. The banana
skin he threw on the pave-ment.
In a few moments he heard footsteps behind him and, turning, saw a
small boy coming along dangling the peel he had dropped. The boy was a
jaunty little fellow, wearing a natty spring suit. It was, in fact,
"Pee-wee" Harris, Tenderfoot, who was just starting out to cover
Provision 5 of the Second Class Scout requirements, for he was going to
be a Second Class Scout before camping-time, or know the reason why.
"You drop that?" he asked pleasantly.
"Ye-re, you kin have it," said Tom cynically.
"Thanks," said Pee-wee, and the banana peel went sailing over the fence
into Temple's lot.
"First thing you know somebody'd get a free ride on that thing," said
Pee-wee.
"Ye-re?" said Tom sneeringly.
"And if anybody got anything free near John Temple's property----"
"Dere's where yer said it, kiddo," said Tom, approvingly.
"So long," said Pee-wee, and went gaily on, walking a little, then
running a little, then walk-ing again, until Tom thought he must be
crazy. Happening just at that minute to finish one of his apples (or
rather one of Schmitt's apples) he let fly the core straight for the
back of Pee-wee's head.
Then a most extraordinary thing, happened. Without so much as turning
round, Pee-wee raised his hand, caught the core, threw it over into the
lot, and then, turning, laughed, "Thanks, good shot!"
Tom had always supposed that the back of a person's head was a safe
target, and he could not comprehend the instinct which was so alert and
highly-tuned that it could work entirely independent of the eyes. But
this was merely one of Pee-wee's specialties, and his amazing progress
from Tenderfoot to Star Scout is a story all by itself.
Tom hoisted himself onto the board fence and attacked the other apple.
Just then along came "Sweet Caporal" demanding the core.
"Gimme it 'n' I'll put yer wise ter sup'm."
Tom made the speculation.
"Wop Joe's around de corner wid his pushcart? wot d'ye say we give him
de spill?"
They were presently joined by "Slats" Corbett, and the "Two Aces," Jim
and Jake Mattenberg, and shortly thereafter Wop Joe's little candystand
was carried by assault.
The gum-drops and chocolate bars which did not find their way into the
pockets of the storming host, were strewn about the street, the whistle
of the peanut-roaster was broken off and Tom went scooting down the
street tooting it vigorously.
This affair scattered the gang for the time, and presently Tom and
"Sweet Caporal" found themselves together. They got an empty bottle
from an ash wagon, broke it and distributed the pieces along Broad
Street, which they selected as a sort of "mine area" for the
embarrassment of auto traffic.
Tom then shuffled into the Public Library, ostensibly to read, but in
fact to decorate the books according to his own theories of art, and
was ejected because he giggled and scuffed his feet and interfered with
the readers.
It would not be edifying to follow Tom's shuffling footsteps that
afternoon, nor to enumerate the catalogue of unseemly phrase and
vicious mischief which filled the balance of the day. He wound up his
career of glory by one of the most contemptible things which he had
ever done. He went up at dusk and tacked his quarantine sign to the
outer gate of the Bennett place.
"Gee, I hope they're all home," he said.
They _were_ all at home and Mrs. Bennett, whom he hated, was busy
with preparation and happy anticipations for her unsuspecting son. That
the wretched plan did not succeed was due to no preparatory omission on
the part of Tom, but because something happened which changed the whole
face of things.