Tom Slade : Boy Scout of the Moving Pictures
Page 2
Tom Slade awoke at about eleven o'clock, swung his legs to the floor,yawned, rubbed his eyes, felt blindly for his tattered shoes andsniffed the air.
Something was wrong, that was sure. Tom sniffed again. Something hadundoubtedly happened. The old familiar odor which had dwelt in theSlade apartment all winter, the stuffy smell of bed clothes and dirtymatting, of kerosene and smoke and fried potatoes and salt-fish andempty beer bottles, had given place to something new. Tom sniffedagain.
Then, all of a sudden, his waking senses became aware of his fatherseated 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, andthe spring air, gracious and democratic, was pouring in amid thesqualor just as it was pouring in through the wide-swung cathedralwindows 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 apint."
"Ain't we goin' to have no eats?"
"No, we ain't goin' ter have no eats. You tell Barney to give ye a cupo' 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' tellhim 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 yousleep till eleven o'clock--"
"You didn' leave me sleep," said Tom. "Yer only woke up yerself half anhour ago."
"Yer call me a liar, will ye?" roared Bill Slade, rising.
Tom took his usual strategic position on the opposite side of thetable, and as his father moved ominously around it, kept the full widthof it between them. When he reached a point nearest the sink he grabbeda dented pail therefrom and darted out and down the stairs.
Up near Grantley Square was a fence which bore the sign, "Post NoBills." How this had managed to escape Tom hitherto was a mystery, buthe now altered it, according to the classic hoodlum formula, so that itread, "Post No Bills," and headed up through the square for BarneyGalloway's saloon. Bill Slade had been reduced to long-distanceintercourse in the matter of saloons for he had exhausted his credit inall the places near Barrel Alley.
In the spacious garden of John Temple's home a girl of twelve orthirteen years was bouncing a ball. This was Mary Temple, and whatbusiness "old" John Temple had with such a pretty and graceful littledaughter, 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 awithering 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 havethat 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 oftriumph, beat a tattoo upon the can, and ran for all he was worth.
Outside the saloon Tom borrowed ten cents from Tony, the bootblack, onhis father's behalf, and with this he purchased the beer.
Meanwhile, the bad turn which he had done had begun to sprout and bythe time he reached home it had grown and spread to such proportionsthat Jack's beanstalk was a mere shrub compared with it. Nothing wasfarther from John Temple's thoughts that beautiful Saturday than to paya visit to Barrel Alley. On the contrary, he was just putting on hisnew spring hat to go out to the Country Club for a turn at golf, whenMary came in crying that Tom Slade had stolen her ball.
Temple cared nothing about the ball, nor a great deal about Mary'stears, but the mention of Tom Slade reminded him that the first of themonth was close at hand and that he had intended to "warn" Bill Sladewith the usual threat of eviction. Bill had never paid the rent in fullafter the second month of his residence in Barrel Alley. When he wasworking and Temple happened to come along at a propitious moment, Billwould give him two dollars or five dollars, as the case might be, butas 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 wouldnever have thought to go through Barrel Alley on his way out to theCountry Club, but as it was, when Tom turned into the Alley from MainStreet, he saw Mr. Temple's big limousine car standing in front of hisown door.
If there was one thing in this world more than another dear to theheart of Tom Slade, it was a limousine car. Even an Italian organgrinderdid not offer the mischievous possibilities of a limousine. Hehad a regular formula for the treatment of limousines which was as sureof success as a "cure all."
Placing his pail inside the doorway, he approached the chauffeur with asuspiciously friendly air which boded mischief. After a strategic wordor two of cordiality, he grasped the siren horn, tooted it frantically,pulled the timer aroundr opened one of the doors, jumped in and out ofthe opposite door, leaving both open, and retreated as far as thecorner, calling, "Yah-h-h-h-h!"
In a few minutes he returned very cautiously, sidled up to the housedoor, and took his belated way upstairs.
Tom placed his pail on the lower step of the stair leading up to thefloor above his own, but did not enter the room whence emanated thestern voice of John Temple and the lying excuses of his father. He wentdown and out on the door step and sat on the railing, gazing at thechauffeur 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 theforce 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 ferjoy-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 Templeemerged from the door behind him.
"Put down that stone, sir, or I'll lock you up!" said he with the airof 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 certainpeople of this town spent less for canvas uniforms to put on their boysto make tramps out of them, we should be able, perhaps, to build anaddition to the jail."
"Ya-ah, an' you'd be de first one to go into it!" Tom yelled, as Templereached the step of his car.
"What's that?" said Temple, turning suddenly.
"That's _what!_" shouted Tom, letting fly the stone. It wentstraight to its mark, removing "old" John's spring hat as effectuallyas a gust of wind, and leaving it embedded in the mud below the car.
"CAN'T YOU SEE WHAT THEY'RE A-DOIN?" ROARED HIS FATHER.]
CHAPTER III
IN JAIL AND OUT AGAIN