A Son of the City Part 8

"Perry Alford's worked, and so did mine, and Bill Silvey's, Olaf's, Carl's, and the country kid's."

"The other kids aren't paying you no nickel."

"They are, too. Ask Mickey and his brother, and the Shepherd kids.

They're going to be sick this afternoon, and they've paid me."

"I can go to Olaf," a.s.serted the would-be dead-beat. "He'll tell me what you told him, and it'll only cost a penny."

"He'd better not! I'll smash his face in if he does. _Are you going to give me that nickel?_"

"Naw, I ain't."

John clenched his fists belligerently. His debtor raised both arms in a posture of defense. The princ.i.p.al tiptoed noiselessly around the end of the fence. John sparred for an opening and his opponent spied the approaching figure.

"Jiggers! Old man Downer!" he yelled. "Beat it quick!"

John turned, only to meet the princ.i.p.al's firm grasp on his shoulder.

"Come up to the office," said the quiet voice. "I want to have a talk with you."

He led the way to the center doors, an entrance reserved for the use of such awe-inspiring mortals as the faculty, visiting school superintendents, and parents. Up the dingy wooden stairs, worn at either end by the innumerable shuffling feet which had pa.s.sed over them, they went, and into the bleak little office.

"Sit down," said Mr. Downer.

John collapsed into an uncomfortable wooden chair and gazed about him.

There were the same desk, the same window box, filled with geraniums and pansies, and the same dun wall that he had seen on previous visits, prompted by his various sins. There was only one change. Opposite him, a newly framed head of Was.h.i.+ngton looked down from the wall in cold disapproval of the culprit who, for once in his brief life, felt strangely small and subdued.

There were no questions; the princ.i.p.al had heard too much from his vantage point beside the fence. So he talked on and on and on in even, severe tones, of notes mailed to parents, of suspension notices, of school board action, and of interviews with Mr. Fletcher, until John, staring, motionless, at a panel in the big oak desk, felt his lower lip quiver. Then the gray-haired man desisted.

"But I hope none of these measures will be necessary, John," he concluded.

"N-no, sir," came the scarcely audible response.

Had the boy looked at the kindly face, he would have seen that the deep set eyes were a-twinkle with suppressed merriment, but he was too conscience-stricken to do anything but slink from the office to the school yard.

There he found that the news of his downfall had been spread among the fast increasing throng of boys who scampered over the pavement in breakneck games of tag or made tops perform miraculous tricks as they waited for the school bell to ring. Not a few jeered at him. One or two little girls who were pa.s.sing stuck out their tongues. Even Sid DuPree and Silvey and the rest of the "Tigers" had only derisive laughter.

It was the first time in his life that he had been made to feel ridiculous and he liked it not at all. He felt strangely out of place and stood to one side of the yard, a scowl on his face, glaring at the throng of merrymakers. Anyway, the proceeds of his escapade were in his pockets; that was more money than any of the scoffers owned. He shook the coins consolingly.

A boy darted past. "Y-a-a, Johnny will try to fool the doctor!"

The scowl deepened, then vanished suddenly. "Hey!" he bellowed to an astonished group near him. "Come on, all of you, over to the school store."

They filed, a perplexed, noisy throng, into the cramped room. The proprietress gasped. John swaggered forward.

"Here," said he, with the air of a young millionaire throwing away twenty-dollar tips, "I want forty-five cents' worth of six-for-a-cent lemon drops. Give each of these kids two and save the rest for me, if there is any rest!"

Then he strutted out, a veritable lord of creation. His pockets were empty, but little he cared. The clamor in the school store was as sweet music to his ears, for it meant that his status among his play-fellows was restored. His b.u.mp of conceit no longer ached. So he knew that the victory was worth the price and again he felt at peace with the world.

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED

The following morning was clear and sun-s.h.i.+ny. Silvey, his trousers'

pockets strangely distorted, sprinted down the street and halted on the cement walk in front of the Fletcher house.

"Oh, John-e-e-e! Oh, John-e-e-e!"

John appeared at an upper window in answer to the ear-piercing call. He carried a dustrag in one hand, and an expression of extreme discontent was on his freckled face.

"What you want?"

"Come on out."

"Can't." Disgruntled pessimism rang in his tones.

"Why?"

"Got to tidy my room and dust the bookcase and hang up my clothes in the closet and cut the front gra.s.s. Mother says so."

"Aw-w-w, shucks! Can't you get out of it?" His friend fumbled in one of his bulging pockets. "Look!"

The laborer at household tasks stared with sudden interest. "Ji-miny, cukes! Where'd you get 'em?"

"'Long the railroad tracks. Vines are loaded. Nice and ripe, too.

Watch."

He hurled the greeny, spiny oval against the window ledge where it burst with the peculiar "plop," which only a wild cuc.u.mber of a certain stage of juicy plumpness can make.

"The fellows are going to have a big fight," Silvey continued--"Perry Alford and Sid and the Harrison kids and all the rest of the gang. Ask your mother can you leave the work until afternoon. Tease her _hard_."

Cuc.u.mbers ripe so early? That was fine! But could he evade the Sat.u.r.day tasks. He would try.

As he descended the stairs, the elation left his face and his step grew heavy and lifeless. He was framing a plea for freedom and his manner must fit the occasion. Had you seen him, you might have thought that his best bamboo fis.h.i.+ng pole had been broken, or that the key to his bookcase was in maternal possession as punishment for some misdeed. All boys are splendid professional mourners anyway, and John was by no means an exception to the rule.

He halted in the dingy coat closet to listen. Through the closed kitchen door came his mother's voice uplifted in song.

Nita, Oh, Ju-a-a-nita, Ala-a-s that we must part!

He sighed deeply. Bitter experience had taught that never was moment so unpropitious for errands like the present as when that cheerful dirge filled the air. But the thought of the waiting Silvey nerved him. He turned the doork.n.o.b and coughed hesitantly. His mother looked up from the pan of apples on her lap and smiled. She knew that lagging step and drooping mouth of old.

"Well, John?"

Her son fidgeted from one foot to the other. Beginnings were always so difficult. At last he blurted out: