Sticks and Stones

It happened in Barrel Alley, and it was Tom Slade, as usual, who did it. Picking a barrel-stave out of the mud, he sidled up to Ching Wo’s laundry, opened the door, beat the counter with a resounding clamor, called, “Ching, Ching, Chinaman!” and by way of a grand climax, hurled the dirty barrel-stave at a pile of spotless starched shirts, banged the door shut and ran.

Tom was “on the hook” this morning. In one particular (and in only one) Tom was like “Old John Temple,” who owned the bank as well as Barrel Alley. Both took one day off a week. “Old John” never went down to the bank on Saturdays and Tom never went to school on Mondays. He began his school week on Tuesday; and the truant officer was just about as sure to cast his dreaded net in Barrel Alley on a Monday as old John Temple was sure to visit it on the first of the month—­when the rents were due.

This first and imminent rock of peril passed, Tom lost no time in offering the opening number of his customary morning program, which was to play some prank on Ching Wo. But Ching Wo, often disturbed, like a true philosopher, and knowing it was Monday, picked out the soiled shirts, piled up the others, threw the muddy stave out and quietly resumed his ironing.

Up at the corner Tom emerged around John Temple’s big granite bank building into the brighter spectacle of Main Street. Here he paused to adjust the single strand of suspender which he wore. The other half of this suspender belonged to his father; the two strands had originally formed a single pair and now, in their separate responsibilities, each did duty continuously, since neither Tom nor his father undressed when they went to bed.

His single strand of suspender replaced, Tom shuffled along down Main Street on his path of glory.

At the next corner was a coal-box. This he opened and helped himself to several chunks of coal. A little farther on he came to a trolley car standing still. Sidling up behind it, he grabbed the pole-rope, detaching the pulley from the wire.

The conductor emerged, shook his fist at the retreating boy and sent a few expletives after him. Tom then let fly one piece of coal after another at the rear platform of the car, keeping a single chunk for future use.

For, whenever Tom Slade got into a dispute (which was on an average of a dozen times a day), he invariably picked up a stone. Not that he expected always to throw it, though he often did, but because it illustrated his attitude of suspicion and menace toward the world in general, and toward other boys in particular.

So firmly rooted had the habit become that even indoors when his father threatened him (which was likewise on an average of a dozen times a day) he would reach cautiously down behind his legs, as if he expected to find a stone on the kitchen floor conveniently near at hand.

First and last, Tom had heard a good deal of unfavorable comment about his fancy for throwing stones. Mrs. Bennett, the settlement worker, had informed him that throwing stones was despicable, which went in one ear and out the other, because Tom did not know what “despicable” meant. The priest had told him that it was both wicked and cowardly; while the police had gone straight to the heart of the matter by threatening to lock him up for it.

And yet, you know, it was not until Tom met young Mr. Ellsworth, scoutmaster, that he heard something on the subject which stuck in his mind. On this day of Tom’s wild exploits, as he moved along a little further down the street he came to the fence which enclosed John Temple’s vacant lot. It was covered with gaudy posters and with his remaining piece of coal he proceeded to embellish these.

He was so absorbed in his decorative enterprise that he did not notice the person who was standing quietly on the sidewalk watching him, until he was aware of a voice speaking very sociably.

“I don’t think I should do that, my boy, if I were you.”

Tom paused (in the middle of a most unwholesome sentence) and saw a young gentleman, perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, looking pleasantly at him. He was extremely well-dressed in a natty blue serge suit, and to Tom his appearance was little less than gorgeous.

The boy’s first impulse was, of course, to run, and he made a start as if to do so. Then, fearing perhaps that there was not a clear get-away, he stooped for a stone.

“What are you going to do with that?” asked the young gentleman, smiling.

“Nartin.”

“You weren’t going to throw it at me, I hope, while I am standing three feet from you.”

Tom was a little nonplussed. “I wouldn’t t’row no stone standin’ near yer,” he grumbled.

“Good,” said the young man; “you have some ideas about sporting, haven’t you? Though, of course, you’re no sport—­or you wouldn’t have picked up a stone at all.”

Now this was great news to Tom. He knew he was no gentleman; Mrs. Bennett had told him that. He knew he was a hoodlum; the trolley conductors had told him that. He knew that he was lazy and shiftless and unkempt and a number of other things, for the world at large had made no bones of telling him so; but never, never for one moment had he supposed that he was no sport. He had always believed that to hit a person with a stone and “get away with it” represented the very top-notch of fun, and sporting proficiency.

So he looked at this young man as if he thought that he had inadvertently turned the world upside down.

“Give me that piece of coal, my boy, and let’s see if we can’t mark out that last word.”

“Yer’ll git yer hand all dirty wid coal,” said Tom, hardly knowing what else to say.

“Well, a dirty hand isn’t as bad as a filthy word; besides, I’m rooting in the dirt with my hands all summer, anyway,” said the young man, as he marked out Tom’s handiwork. “There,” he added, handing back the coal, “that’s not so bad now; guess neither one of us is much of an artist, hey? See that scratch?” he went on, exhibiting his hand to Tom. “I got that shinning up a tree. Come on, let’s beat it; first thing you know a cop will be here.”

Tom hardly knew what to think of this strange, sumptuously-attired creature whose hands were rooting in the dirt all summer, and who got a scratch (which he proudly exhibited) from shinning up a tree; who said “beat it” when he meant “go away,” and who called a policeman a “cop.”

Tom rather liked the way this strange man talked, though it was not without a tinge of suspicion that he accompanied him along the street, casting furtive glances at his luxurious attire, wondering how such as he could climb a tree.

“You couldn’t shin up no tree,” he presently ventured.

“Oh, couldn’t I, though?” laughed his companion. “I’ve shinned up more trees than you’ve got fingers and toes.”

“When you was a kid?”

“I’m a kid now, and don’t you forget it. And I’ll give you a tip, too. Grind up some bark in your hands—­it works fine.”

They walked on silently for a little way; an ill-assorted pair they must have seemed to a passer-by, the boy hitching up his suspender as often as it slid from his shoulder in his shuffling effort to keep up with the alert stride of his companion.

“Trouble with stone-throwing is that there isn’t any skill in it. You know what Buck Edwards said, don’t you? He said he’d have learned to pitch much easier if it hadn’t been for throwing stones when he was a kid. He used to be a regular fiend at it, and when he came to passing curves he couldn’t make his first finger behave. You think Buck can beat that pitcher the Prep. boys have got?”

“Dem High School guys is all right.”

“Well, Buck’s a good pitcher. I don’t suppose I’ve thrown a stone in ten years. But I bet I could practice for ten minutes and beat you out. You smoke, don’t you?”

“N-no—­yeer, I do sometimes.”

“Just caught the truth by the tail that time, didn’t you?” the young man laughed. “Well, a kid can’t aim steady if he smokes: that’s one sure thing.”

Tom was seized with a strange desire to strengthen his companion’s side of the case. The poor boy had few enough arguments, goodness knows, in defense of his own habits, and his information was meagre enough. Yet the one little thing which he seemed to remember about the other side of stone-throwing he now contributed willingly.

“It’s bad too if you ever land a guy one in the temple.”

“Well, I don’t know; I don’t think there’s so much in that, though there may be. I landed a guy one in the temple with a stick last summer—­accident, of course, and I thought it would kill him, but it didn’t.”

Tom was surprised and fascinated by the stranger’s frankness.

“But a fellow that throws stones is no sport, that’s sure, and you can mark that up in your brain if you happen to have a lump of coal handy.”

“I chucked that coal—­honest.”

“Good.”

It had been Tom’s intention to go down through Chester Street and steal an apple from Schmitt’s Grocery, but instead he accompanied his new friend until that mysterious person turned to enter a house.

“Guess we didn’t swap names, did we?” the stranger said, holding out his hand.

It was the first time that Tom Slade had grasped anyone’s hand in many a day.

“Tom—­Tom Slade,” he said, hitching up his suspender.

“So? Mine’s Ellsworth. Come up to the Library building and see us some Friday night—­the boys, I mean.”

“Oh, are you the boss o’ them regiment fellers?”

“Not exactly the boss; scouts we call ourselves.”

“What’s a scout? A soldier, like?”

“No, a scout’s a fellow that does stunts and things.”

“I betcher you kin do a few.”

“I bet I can!” laughed Mr. Ellsworth; “you said it! I’ve got some of those boys guessing.” Which was the plain truth.

“Drop in some Friday night and see us; don’t forget now.”

Tom watched him as he ascended the steps of a neighboring porch. He had a strange fascination for the boy, and it was not till the door closed behind him that Tom’s steady gaze was averted. Then he shuffled off down the street.

“Hats Off”

Tom Slade awoke at about eleven o’clock, swung his legs to the floor, yawned, rubbed his eyes, felt blindly for his tattered shoes and sniffed the air.

Something was wrong, that was sure. Tom sniffed again. Something had undoubtedly happened. The old familiar odor which had dwelt in the Slade apartment all winter, the stuffy smell of bed clothes and dirty matting, of kerosene and smoke and fried potatoes and salt-fish and empty beer bottles, had given place to something new. Tom sniffed again.

Then, all of a sudden, his waking senses became aware of his father seated in his usual greasy chair, sideways to the window.

And the window was open!

The stove-lifter which had been used to pry it up lay on the sill, and the spring air, gracious and democratic, was pouring in amid the squalor just as it was pouring in through the wide-swung cathedral windows of John Temple’s home up in Grantley Square.

“Yer opened the winder, didn’ yer?” said Tom.

“Never you mind what I done,” replied his father.

“Ain’t it after six?”

“Never you mind what ’tis; git yer cap ‘n’ beat it up to Barney’s for a pint.”

“Ain’t we goin’ to have no eats?”

“No, we ain’t goin’ ter have no eats. You tell Barney to give ye a cup o’ coffee; tell ’im I said so.”

“Awh, he wouldn’ give me no pint widout de money.”

“He wouldn’, wouldn’ he? I’ll pint you!”

“I ain’t goin’ ter graft on him no more.”

“Git me a dime off Tony then and stop in Billy’s comin’ back ‘n’ tell him I got the cramps agin and can’t work.”

“He’ll gimme the laugh.”

“I’ll give ye the other kind of a laugh if ye don’t beat it. I left you sleep till eleven o’clock—­”

“You didn’ leave me sleep,” said Tom. “Yer only woke up yerself half an hour ago.”

“Yer call me a liar, will ye?” roared Bill Slade, rising.

Tom took his usual strategic position on the opposite side of the table, and as his father moved ominously around it, kept the full width of it between them. When he reached a point nearest the sink he grabbed a dented pail therefrom and darted out and down the stairs.

Up near Grantley Square was a fence which bore the sign, “Post No Bills.” How this had managed to escape Tom hitherto was a mystery, but he now altered it, according to the classic hoodlum formula, so that it read, “Post No Bills,” and headed up through the square for Barney Galloway’s saloon. Bill Slade had been reduced to long-distance intercourse in the matter of saloons for he had exhausted his credit in all the places near Barrel Alley.

In the spacious garden of John Temple’s home a girl of twelve or thirteen years was bouncing a ball. This was Mary Temple, and what business “old” John Temple had with such a pretty and graceful little daughter, I am not qualified to explain.

“Chuck it out here,” said Tom, “an’ I’ll ketch it in the can.”

She retreated a few yards into the garden, then turned, and gave Tom a withering stare.

“Chuck it out here and I’ll chuck it back—­honest,” called Tom.

The girl’s dignity began to show signs of collapse. She wanted to have that ball thrown, and to catch it.

“Will you promise to toss it back?” she weakened.

“Sure.”

“Word and honor?”

“Sure.”

“Cross your heart?”

“Sure.”

Still she hesitated, arm in air.

“Will you promise to throw it back?”

“Sure, hope to die. Chuck it.”

“Get back a little,” said she.

The ball went sailing over the paling, Tom caught it, gave a yell of triumph, beat a tattoo upon the can, and ran for all he was worth.

Outside the saloon Tom borrowed ten cents from Tony, the bootblack, on his father’s behalf, and with this he purchased the beer.

Meanwhile, the bad turn which he had done had begun to sprout and by the time he reached home it had grown and spread to such proportions that Jack’s beanstalk was a mere shrub compared with it. Nothing was farther from John Temple’s thoughts that beautiful Saturday than to pay a visit to Barrel Alley. On the contrary, he was just putting on his new spring hat to go out to the Country Club for a turn at golf, when Mary came in crying that Tom Slade had stolen her ball.

Temple cared nothing about the ball, nor a great deal about Mary’s tears, but the mention of Tom Slade reminded him that the first of the month was close at hand and that he had intended to “warn” Bill Slade with the usual threat of eviction. Bill had never paid the rent in full after the second month of his residence in Barrel Alley. When he was working and Temple happened to come along at a propitious moment, Bill would give him two dollars or five dollars, as the case might be, but as to how the account actually stood he had not the slightest idea.

If Tom had not sent Mary Temple into the house crying her father would never have thought to go through Barrel Alley on his way out to the Country Club, but as it was, when Tom turned into the Alley from Main Street, he saw Mr. Temple’s big limousine car standing in front of his own door.

If there was one thing in this world more than another dear to the heart of Tom Slade, it was a limousine car. Even an Italian organgrinder did not offer the mischievous possibilities of a limousine. He had a regular formula for the treatment of limousines which was as sure of success as a “cure all.”

Placing his pail inside the doorway, he approached the chauffeur with a suspiciously friendly air which boded mischief. After a strategic word or two of cordiality, he grasped the siren horn, tooted it frantically, pulled the timer aroundr opened one of the doors, jumped in and out of the opposite door, leaving both open, and retreated as far as the corner, calling, “Yah-h-h-h-h!”

In a few minutes he returned very cautiously, sidled up to the house door, and took his belated way upstairs.

Tom placed his pail on the lower step of the stair leading up to the floor above his own, but did not enter the room whence emanated the stern voice of John Temple and the lying excuses of his father. He went down and out on the door step and sat on the railing, gazing at the chauffeur with an exasperating look of triumph.

“I wouldn’ be no lousy Cho-fure,” he began.

The chauffeur (who received twenty-five dollars a week) did not see the force of this remark.

“Runnin’ over kids all de time-you lie, yer did too!”

The chauffeur looked straight ahead and uttered not a word.

“Yer’d be in jail if ’twuzn’t fer old John paying graft ter the cops!”

The chauffeur, who knew his place, made never a sign.

“Yer stinkin’ thief! Yer don’t do a thing but cop de car fer joy-rides—­didn’ yer?”

At this the chauffeur stirred slightly.

“Yes, yer will!” yelled Tom, jumping down from the railing.

He had just picked up a stone, when the portly form of John Temple emerged from the door behind him.

“Put down that stone, sir, or I’ll lock you up!” said he with the air of one who is accustomed to being obeyed.

“G-wan, he called me a liar!” shouted Tom.

“Well, that’s just what you are,” said John Temple, “and if certain people of this town spent less for canvas uniforms to put on their boys to make tramps out of them, we should be able, perhaps, to build an addition to the jail.”

“Ya-ah, an’ you’d be de first one to go into it!” Tom yelled, as Temple reached the step of his car.

“What’s that?” said Temple, turning suddenly.

“That’s what!” shouted Tom, letting fly the stone. It went straight to its mark, removing “old” John’s spring hat as effectually as a gust of wind, and leaving it embedded in the mud below the car.

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.