A Son of the City Part 10

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 marksmans.h.i.+p 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 gla.s.s up on the railroad tracks, and engaging in impromptu games of tag.

"Each fellow gets twenty cuc.u.mbers," concluded John. "That'll leave some for fun, later. If a man gets. .h.i.t 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 pet.i.tioner 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 cuc.u.mbers 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 cuc.u.mber. 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 cuc.u.mber 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 cuc.u.mber 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 cuc.u.mbers 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. .h.i.t 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. .h.i.t 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.