A Son of the City Part 19

Red chewed on a blade of gra.s.s thoughtfully. "Leave milk bottles alone this time. 'Specially old lady Boyer's."

The members nodded approval. On the Halloween preceding, Sid had discovered a solitary container on a window near the flat entrance and dashed it to the cement walk amid exultant yells. Hardly had the noise subsided when a wrinkled, gray-haired head made a distracted appearance at the opening, with a cry of, "I want my milk! I want my milk!"

Returning a moment later from panic-stricken flight, the full meaning of the act dawned upon the boys and remorse overcame them. A hasty search for coin of the realm, a moment of consultation, and Silvey, boosted high on his comrades' shoulders, had rapped on the window ledge. "It ain't much, ma'am, but it's all we got, and we didn't know the bottle was yours," he had murmured; and, all unwitting of the sardonic humor of the act, had pa.s.sed in a check good for a drink at a near-by saloon.

There were moments of reflective silence. "Isn't there something new we can do this year?" Silvey appealed to his fellow members. "Garbage cans and doormats and ringing electric bells are fun, but isn't there a trick we've never worked before?"

"Get some grease and spread it over a porch before you ring the bell,"

suggested Sid. "My big brother, who's away at college, used to do it.

Told me so, himself."

"I tried that once," Red broke in scornfully. "Nearly broke my back getting away. Besides the fellow never steps where he ought to."

John spat with sudden deliberation at a chip of wood on the turf. "Who can get a lot of tomato cans without any holes in them?"

Silvey mentioned a city dump just north of the park, where cans of all sizes and conditions were to be found. His chum nodded approvingly.

"Sid, you and Perry go over there Sat.u.r.day morning and bring back as many middling-sized ones as you can carry. You other fellows cut up pieces of string about as long as you are."

"S'posing the trick don't work after all that trouble?" asked Sid irritably. John was always giving him jobs to do.

"I'll bring a hose key Halloween night," went on John, ignoring the interruption. "We'll tie a string to a tin, fill it up with water from the hose pipe on the front lawn, and tie it to the doork.n.o.b. Door jerks open when the bell rings--you know how mad a fellow is then--and the water goes flying into the hall, ker-splas.h.!.+ Bet you that'll make some fun!"

The others regarded the inventor in silent admiration. "How about the cop?" asked one of them finally.

"Never got mad last year, did he? He's all right. Besides, he's too fat to run very fast."

The back door in the Silvey home squeaked disturbingly as Mrs. Silvey appeared. A dusting cap was jammed determinedly over one eye, and in one hand was a broom.

"Bill, you come in here right away. I want you to help me move the hall rug."

Silvey drawled a response. "Jes' wait until we get through talking. It won't be a minute." He turned to the rest of the "Tigers." "Everybody got pea shooters?" They had, or would have before the eventful day arrived.

"I bought a peachy false-face," Perry boasted in the lull of the conversation which followed. "You ought to see it; looks just like a circus clown."

"Leave it at home," said John brusquely. "You can't see out of 'em when you're running away, and they get all sticky, anyway. They're for kids, not for fellows like us."

"Bill!" scolded the maternal voice again. "Come in the house this minute, before I tell your pa on you when he gets home."

There was that final note of exhausted patience in Mrs. Silvey's voice which commanded instant obedience. He rose with alacrity. As he mounted the steps, the boys still at liberty scampered away in the fast gathering dusk for a game of "Run, sheep, run," down the tracks and over the gra.s.s plots and back yards on the street.

It was nearly six when John came panting into the kitchen.

"What have you been doing, son?" asked his mother as she half turned from the gas stove to smile down at him.

"Oh, talking about Halloween, and what we're going to do, and lots of things. It's going to be peachy."

"Mind, you're not to destroy property or anything like that. Otherwise, you'll have to stay in the house Sat.u.r.day night."

He yawned with elaborate carelessness. "Just going to blow beans and ring doorbells, same as we did last year. Isn't it supper time? I'm hungry."

"We'll eat as soon as your father gets home, son." She turned to give the creamed potatoes a stir lest they stick to the pan. "Oh, I nearly forgot! There's a letter at your place on the dining-room table. It came in the afternoon mail."

"For me?" Surprise made his voice rise to a funny squeak. "Who from?"

"A young lady, I think."

He dashed into the dining-room and opened the envelope with clumsy fingers. On a diminutive sheet of note paper, decorated at the top with two laughing gnomes, ran an invitation copied from some older person's formula:

"Miss Louise Martin requests the pleasure of Mr. John Fletcher's company at a Halloween party to be given at her home on Sat.u.r.day, October 31st, from eight to ten o'clock."

CHAPTER VII

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 Sat.u.r.day 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 leaders.h.i.+p of his chum. Once in the park, the quartette broke into impromptu games of tag, das.h.i.+ng over the moist gra.s.s, or halting to puff l.u.s.tily 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 gra.s.s-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."