The square was a familiar spot transformed. Every window was filled with heads. Every foot of standing room was occupied by that close-packed mass of men, oddly silent in contrast to the shouting, gesticulating orator. And suddenly, to Cavvy’s wrought up imagination, instead of an ordinal crowd of workmen, many of whom he knew by sight if not by name, the throng became a mob of strangers waiting now only the word to launch into ravening destruction.
For a moment it all seemed incongruous, impossible. Mechanically his eyes travelled up the tall, white pole and rested dazedly on the Stars and Stripes rippling in the hot September sun just as it had gleamed there yesterday and the day before. Only that seemed real. His heart swelled unaccountably, then leaped driving the blood into his face as a phrase from the man on the box below stung into his consciousness.
“That flag up there—what does it mean to you?” the fellow shouted, with an upward fling of one long arm. “Does it stand foryourcountry, or for a governmentyouhave any share in? No! A thousand times no! It’s like the Union Jack, or the French Tricolor—a symbol of tyrants who take the bread out of your mouths and fatten like leeches on your toil.”
He paused to sweep a long lock of dark hair out of his eyes. Then he reached out and dexterously loosened the rope halliards. Cavvy caught his breath.
“You’re dirt to them, that’s all,” continued the speaker loudly. “They work you for their own selfish ends and when you cry out, what do they tell you? It’s for the flag! Bah!” He was manipulating the ropes skillfully. Aghast, incredulous, Cavvy saw the flag quiver, dip and droop into a crumpled mass as it was dragged swiftly downward.
“The flag—look at it!” screamed the agitator, deftly loosening the bunting from the halliards and crushing it in both hands.
A startled murmur rose from the crowd, but Cavvy did not hear it. He bent forward, face white and strained, eyes glittering. Unconsciously the fingers of one hand dug into McBride’s shoulder until the boy winced.
“Look at it!” repeated the hateful voice triumphantly. “The symbol of tyrants! There’s no real flag but the emblem of universal brotherhood. This thing—this rag, is fit for nothing but the dirt, to be ground under foot.”
“No!” cried Cavvy hoarsely. “Stop!”
The words which had so infuriated him were scarcely spoken when out of the crowd packed around the flag-pole there leaped a boy—short, square-built, olive skinned. Like a flash he reached up and snatched the crumpled bunting from the hands of the startled orator, ducked under the arm of a burly miner who was too surprised to stop him, and disappeared into the throng.
Cavvy caught his breath and straightened. From his point of vantage he could follow the progress through the crowd of this new actor in the drama. Ducking, squirming, wriggling, the boy eluded a dozen hands stretched out to stop him. Away from those immediately surrounding the agitator, his progress was easier. So swift had been his action that many of those on the outskirts of the crowd had not even seen it. They did not know what it was all about. Suddenly Cavanaugh clutched McBride and dragged him down the steps.
“He’s getting away with it. It’s that Tallerico kid. Come ahead, quick. Maybe he’ll need some help.”
Their progress toward the point where Cavvy thought the Italian boy would merge was more or less hindered. The crowd was suddenly in motion, roughly pushing in to gain a nearer view of what was going on about the flag-pole. A bedlam of voices chattering half a dozen tongues took the place of that former tense silence.
At last, bursting from the crowd, Cavanaugh caught a glimpse of Tallerico darting down an alley, and impulsively he followed. Several half-grown mine boys were headed in the same direction, and he determined grimly that if they meant to stop the Italian they would not do it unhindered.
Down the alley he ran with Micky at his elbow. They passed the mine boys and presently emerged unopposed into the street beyond in time to see Tallerico disappearing through the doorway of the Jessup house.
“He’s got away,” said Cavvy with a sigh of relief.
He slowed down, and McBride paused with him.
“Some kid!” exclaimed the latter. “Took nerve to put across a stunt like that.”
Cavanaugh did not answer. He moved slowly on, and at the door of the old house he paused, a curious expression on his face.
“I’m going in,” he stated abruptly, a touch of defiance in his glance.
The hall was dark and rather smelly. In the days of Washington it had been spacious and beautiful, but it could scarcely be called so now. Dirt streaked the walls; odds and ends of broken furniture cluttered the door. Four doors opened out of the hall, all of which were closed, and Cavvy hesitated doubtfully at the foot of the graceful, curving, battered staircase.
Then from above, punctuating the stillness, came faintly the sound of suppressed panting. Cavvy took the stairs at a run, McBride following at his heels. An instant later he paused on the threshold of a room so different from anything he had expected that he was fairly speechless with surprise.
It was long and low, with three windows, two looking out on the street. The glass in them was clear and unbroken; instinctively he realized that these must be Micky’s “two whole windows” of that morning. The woodwork shone immaculate in its creamy whiteness; the floor was clean. A table and a few chairs were ranged against the wall. There were other things, but just now Cavvy had no eye for detail.
From the wall above the white mantel—aloof, majestic, a touch of kindliness about the eyes, a hint of world-weariness in the tight-lipped mouth—looked down the face of Stuart’s Washington. Below the picture, startled, defiant, a little afraid, stood the Tallerico kid, the rescued flag still clutched tightly in his arm.
As recognition dawned, his tense expression faded. His eyes softened, and with a long, relieved sigh his lips parted in a flashing smile.
“Oh!” he said. “It’s—it’syou!”
Cavvy gulped.
“Yes, it’s us,” he answered, oblivious of grammar. “We thought you might need some help, but—” He broke off and moved swiftly toward the boy. “It was great—simply great!” he exclaimed a little incoherently. “We got there late and were away on the outside. When that—thatbeastgrabbed the flag, I—I—”
“I heard you,” said Tallerico simply. “It—it helped.”
Cavvy stared. “Helped?”
“Yes,” nodded the other, smiling. “It came sudden, you know. I had not thought the—thefaccinowould do the thing he did. When you cry out it—it wake me up. I know you were too far away to help; and so I did quickly what you would do if you were near.”
A slow flush crept up into Cavvy’s face. He bit his lip, and then one hand reached out and caught the smaller boy by the shoulder. For an instant he stood there silent. Then:
“Let’s fold up the flag,” he said rather gruffly. “And while we’re doing it you can tell me about this room. It’s got me guessing.”
“It is the room of the great Washington,” explained Tallerico promptly—“his special room. He was here in the Revolution. You see, my father says General Washington is the greatest man in the world, and when he find out about this room he fix it up and keep it nice. Sometimes—” He hesitated and then went on rather shyly. “Sometimes, when I come here by myself and read the history and look at his picture, it makes it all so real as if, almost, I could turn around and—and see him standing by the window, or—” He broke off with an embarrassed laugh. “Maybe that sounds foolish to you.”
Cavanaugh shook his head; there was a very curious expression on his face.
“No,” he said slowly at length, “it doesn’t. I’ll tell you what I do think, though,” he went on briskly. “You’re one good scout, Tallerico. There isn’t a fellow in the troop who’ll beat you.”
The dark eyes glowed. “You mean—”
“Sure thing!” Cavvy’s lips parted in a friendly grin. “There’s a troop meeting next Friday, and— Well, I guess he’ll see, won’t he, Micky?”
Mr. Wendell clamped some papers carefully together and laid them within the covers of his troop record book.
“Now that we’ve gone over the matter of the Liberty Loan,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “there’s one more piece of business before we take up our final practice for the rally to-morrow. I mean the application of young Frank Tallerico for membership in the troop. I don’t think I need say much about him. He’s been present for several meetings and you’ve had time to size him up and talk over the matter amongst yourselves. There is just one thing, though. You know I don’t wish to influence you in any way, but for some time it has seemed to me we might very well broaden out and take in more fellows like Tallerico—boys who work or who come from laboring families. I’ve already talked about this with the troop leaders, so I won’t say any more now. The meeting is open for nominations.”
As he ceased speaking there was a little stir amongst the scouts seated on a long row against the opposite wall. The scoutmaster, apt at reading expressions, sensed a slight feeling of tension and was prepared, as he had expected to be, for a marked difference of opinion. Clay Marshall, serious and full of responsibility, seemed on the point of getting on his feet. But before he or any one else had time to make a move, Jim Cavanaugh sprang up.
“I nominate Frank Tallerico for membership,” he said abruptly.
“Second the motion,” echoed McBride, from his place at the head of the Eagle Patrol.
There was a murmur of surprise from several quarters. Stout Harry Ritter’s jaw gaped.
“Well, of all the fakes,” he muttered to Ted Hinckley beside him. “Why, not more than a week ago he wouldn’t listen to such a thing.”
John Wendell’s face expressed neither his surprise nor his gratification.
“You’ve all heard the nomination,” he said. “Will you have a standing vote, or ballot?”
“Standing vote,” suggested several voices at once.
“Very well. Those in favor of the nomination please stand. Those opposed remain seated.”
With a stir, a rustle and much scraping of feet, the entire troop arose. The scoutmaster smiled.
“Fine,” he said. “I think you’ve done the right thing, fellows. I’ve an idea you’ll find Tallerico has the makings of a good scout.”
“He has,” said Cavanaugh emphatically. “May I say a word, sir? It’s just this,” he added with some embarrassment, his glance traveling swiftly over the line of scouts. “As Fa—er—Ritter says, not very long ago I didn’t want him in the troop at all. He’s a foreigner, and I didn’t think he knew or cared anything about scouting for the flag or—or anything. I was dead wrong. You all know about what happened in front of the Smelter buildings last Saturday. A beastly anarchist was gassing the crowd and he pulled down the flag and was going to tramp on it. Very likely you’ve heard that a boy jumped out of the bunch and grabbed the flag and got away with it. It broke up the meeting and afterward the men ran the fellow and his gang out of town. Well, that boy was Tallerico, and if he don’t make as fine a scout as anybody here, I’ll—I’ll—”
Just what Cavvy would have done in that event remained unknown. A roar of applause, punctuated by stamping feet and whistling, broke from the troop and drowned his voice. Long before order was restored, Cavanaugh had resumed his seat and recovered his usual composure.
“I suppose you’re going to train him yourself for the Tenderfoot exams,” commented Ted Hinckley slyly.
“He don’t need it,” returned Cavvy coolly. “He’s pretty near ready for the second class, which is more thansomepeople can say.”
There was another laugh and then Mr. Wendell intervened. In a few words he expressed his pleasure and appreciation of Tallerico’s act, which, he said, any of those present would have been proud to have performed, and then took up the practice for the rally.
This was to be a small affair confined to members of the troop. With so much war work, and the Liberty Loan so near, there was no time for anything elaborate. The several patrols were simply to compete together in various scout stunts on the village Green, and there would also be two or three combined maneuvers with staves and first aid materials for the entertainment of any onlookers who might be present.
Naturally there was a lot of good natured rivalry amongst the patrols. Each leader was determined that his particular group should come off with the most honors, and there had been considerable secret practicing at odd moments for two weeks past. The meet was scheduled for three o’clock, and there were no late comers.
The events were started with a dressing race in which there were six entrants, two from each patrol. A distance was marked off and divided into six narrow imaginary lanes, along which at regular distances the contestants laid their shoes, leggins, coat, belt and hat. At a given signal each scout started down the course, putting on his things in the order named. The one to reach the tape first, provided he was properly dressed and his equipment in perfect order, was the winner.
Naturally a good many ludicrous happenings occurred and evoked much laughter both from the scouts and the people lining the course. Bill McBride came in third, and Shrimp Willett, also a member of the Eagle Patrol, took first honors. He was small, wiry and quick as chain lightning, and the way he seemed to slide into his garments as if they had been oiled, provided much entertainment to the bystanders.
“That kid don’t need much time in the morning,” commented one of the latter. “Believe me, he could get dressed on the way down stairs.”
McBride, who was standing near the line, smiled unconsciously at the man’s amusement. A moment later he heard a voice behind him sneer:
“Baby’s tricks! Gee-whiz! Ain’t they got nothing better to do with their time?”
Turning abruptly, he met the contemptuous stare of a slouching, shabbily dressed fellow a year or two older than himself, who lounged indolently against a tree. A faded cap perched rakishly on a mop of brilliant red hair; his eyes were blue and hard and wide open. From one corner of his mouth there dangled the butt of a cigarette.
Micky flushed, and his lips parted for a swift retort. But at that moment the signal sounded for the next event and he had to hurry off.
When he passed near that portion of the Green again the obnoxious “Red” Garrity was gone. Another boy stood there, however, whom McBride had sometimes noticed in his company. He frowned, and then he caught an odd, almost wistful questioning in the other’s eyes which puzzled him. None of that crowd of roughnecks had ever shown the slightest interest in scout doings except to hoot and jeer at the troop when they met in the street. There had been more than one case of solitary scouts or small boys in pairs who had been roughly treated by the hoodlums under the leadership of the red haired chap. With this in mind, Micky was just turning away when the other boy took a quick step forward.
“You—you didn’t win that last race, did you?” he said hesitatingly.
The remark was obviously made for the sake of creating talk. But McBride was naturally a friendly chap, and just now he was a little curious to know what was in the other’s mind. So he answered pleasantly, and quite a little conversation ensued.
“Hanged if he don’t seem really interested,” thought the patrol leader, as he went off presently to oversee his candidate for the firelighting contest. “He certainly talks that way. I don’t know why he shouldn’t be, either. Those fellows don’t seem to have much to do except bum around street corners, and I can’t see any fun in that.”
Twice afterwards he paused to chat with the boy, whose name was Conners. Then came the final exhibitions, and when it was all over Micky had to hurry home to look after some chores which must be done before supper.
His patrol had won out by a narrow margin, and he was in high spirits as he took a short cut through a rather slummy part of town. Swinging briskly along the narrow street, he entertained himself by recalling some of the amusing happenings of the afternoon. Fat Ritter had been particularly funny in the one-legged race, and Micky was thinking how he would josh the fellow next time they met, when he suddenly realized that a few hundred yards ahead three figures were lined up against a factory wall, watching him intently.
One of them was Conners; another he did not know by name. The third was swaggering Red Garrity. There was something unmistakably ominous in their attitude of quiet waiting. Things he had heard of as happening to scouts at the hands of this red haired hooligan and his followers flashed into Micky’s brain, and for a second his pace faltered and he almost stopped.
Then abruptly his head went up and his jaw squared. Swiftly he resumed his stride and came on steadily. His lips were firm, his eyes set straight ahead; and though it must be confessed that his heart was beating rather rapidly, he did not show it.
When Red Garrity left the Green, he sauntered down a side street to a small tobacco store where he bought a package of cheap cigarettes. Outside the door he met Shrimp McGowan and the two lounged on a corner for half an hour or so before deciding to indulge in a soda. This also took some time and when it was finally over they strolled toward the section of town that was filled with factories and cheap dwellings in a languid search for Chick Conners.
In the end it was Conners himself who did the finding. Speeding homeward from the Green, he overtook the two cronies dawdling along in front of a factory. His appearance met with slightly aggrieved inquiries.
“Where you been all afternoon?” demanded Garrity.
“Yes,” chimed in McGowan, “we’ve been looking all over town for you.”
Conners sniffed. “You couldn’t have looked very hard,” he commented. “I just come from seeing the boy scouts on the Green.”
Garrity hitched up a frayed suspender and sneered.
“Boy scouts!” he repeated in a scornful tone. “You must be terrible hard up, Chick, to go hanging around that bunch of dubs.”
Conners flushed a little.
“Aw, I wasn’t hanging around ’em,” he protested. “I was just watching ’em do them stunts.”
“Stunts! Do you call them loony kid games stunts? Taking off their clothes and then seeing which can put ’em on quickest! I ain’t very shy of time, but would you catch me wasting it on that rot? Nix!”
Conners’ thin lips expanded in a grin.
“If you wasn’t watching ’em yourself how’d you get wise to what they was doing?” he countered.
Garrity took a long pull at the butt of a cigarette and flicked it into the street. Then he turned on Conners, chin thrust out aggressively.
“I don’t need no lifetime, like some guys, to catch on to what’s doing,” he remarked. “A glance while I was passing along the Green was plenty. Besides, I seen enough of ’em long before I come to this slow burg—parading around in their cute little uniforms an’ peddling stamps an’ the like. New York’s full of ’em.”
He pronounced it New Yoick. And as he swaggered there with legs wide apart, hands thrust deep into trousers’ pockets, shabby cap cocked on one side of an untidy mass of carroty hair, it was not hard to guess where he hailed from. Chick Conners eyed him with the admiring gaze of a satellite, beneath which was a touch of doubt and a little hint of protest.
“Maybe that’s right when they’re all dolled up with their coats on an’ everything,” he said. “But they ain’t always like that. A guy was telling me they had darn good fun at their meetings, and in summer they go off to camp, and—”
“Listen at him, Shrimp!” cut in Garrity with a loud laugh. “Don’t he talk up nice. You might think he was hankering to be a boy scout himself.”
Conners flushed scarlet, hesitated, and then his shoulders squared.
“Well, s’posing I was,” he retorted with a sort of uneasy defiance. “I don’t see what difference it makes to you.”
Garrity bent suddenly toward him, chin thrust out, eyes angry and threatening.
“You don’t, eh?” he snorted. “Well, let me tell you something, Conners. You go fooling around them boy scouts, and you’re all off with me. I don’t pal around with that kind of a softy. You’d look good in one of them play soldier suits, you would. Here comes one of ’em now. Ain’t he cute? Don’t forget to s’lute your brother scout, Chick.”
With mouth still sneering, he stepped back beside McGowan who lounged against the wall. After a moment’s hesitation Conners ranged himself with the others, and with varying degrees of expression they watched the approach of the boy in khaki who had just swung the corner half a block away.
He was about fifteen, younger and slighter than Red Garrity, but with a trim, erect carriage which was in marked contrast with the other’s slouch. On his left sleeve was a first class patrol leader’s badge. His clothes were neat and well brushed and his whole equipment immaculate.
He walked briskly with an easy, springy stride, the corners of his lips curving in a reminiscent smile. Suddenly he saw them. The smile vanished; a look of surprise and uncertainty came into his face; he almost stopped. Then he came on again, but with lips pressed tightly together and much of the spring gone from his movements.
Garrity watched his approach, a certain pleased expectancy in his hard blue eyes. Deliberately he kept silent until the scout was opposite him and beginning to think, perhaps, that he might pass without interruption. Then one hand shot out and gripped McBride’s arm.
“What your hurry, Cutey?” drawled Garrity. “Afraid Poppa Scoutmaster will mark you late?”
Micky tried to jerk away, but the muscular fingers dug into his arm with painful force. A deep flush flamed into his face and his eyes narrowed.
“Let go,” he demanded curtly.
Garrity grinned irritatingly.
“Ain’t he got pretty pink cheeks?” he drawled insultingly. “They’re smooth an’ soft just like a girl’s.”
With a sudden motion he brought up his free hand, callous and none too clean, with blackened, broken nails, and rubbed it roughly over one side of McBride’s face.
Shrimp McGowan tittered. Conners’ eyes widened with a look of silent protest. A second later there was a loud smack as Micky’s open palm struck Garrity’s cheek with a force that left a momentary imprint of his fingers on the tanned and freckled skin. The next instant the scout was sprawling in the gutter.
“You fresh Ike!” snarled Garrity furiously. “I’ll tan the hide off you for that. Get up!”
Dizzily McBride tried to scramble to his feet. He had struck the curb with considerable force and his head whirled. But he had not the least intention of giving in to the bully without a fight.
He had scarcely risen to his knees when Garrity knocked him down again. Micky rolled over a couple of times and managed to gain his feet without interference. He was conscious that Conners had caught the red-haired fellow by an elbow and was protesting in a shrill, uneven voice, while McGowan stared uneasily up and down the street. But all he actually saw was the sneering face of his opponent as he staggered forward, clenched fists raised in a position he thought was scientific.
Suddenly there came a whirlwind forward rush which easily broke through the boy’s unsteady guard. Garrity had no science. His was merely the superiority of bull strength and a total disregard for the principles of fair fighting. McBride, still shaky from that knock against the curb, managed to partly parry a blow at his chest. Then came a smothering clinch and a blow on the face which turned the boy limp and sent him to the ground again.
Garrity stepped back, his breath coming a little unevenly. For a moment he stood motionless, eyes fixed on the limp figure at his feet. McBride’s hat was gone, his coat was torn and muddied. There was a smear of grime across one cheek and a cut from which the blood oozed slowly. As Red stared at the white face and the sprawling body, so much slimmer and smaller than his own, a curious, unwonted sense of shame swept over him. An instant later the scout’s eyes opened and he looked dazedly at the fellow standing over him.
“You—you coward!” he muttered. “You beastly coward!”
Garrity gave a loud, raucous laugh which somehow held no note of mirth in it.
“Talk’s cheap,” he sneered, hitching up his suspender. “I guess you won’t get fresh again withme.” He turned and swaggered off. “Come ahead, fellows,” he said over one shoulder. “This poor prune’s finished. Let’s be getting down town.”
McGowan slouched along beside him. Chick Conners took a step or two after them and then stopped short.
“I ain’t coming,” he stated briefly.
Garrity turned his head and for a moment stared steadily into the other fellow’s face. What he saw there brought a faint flush into his freckled cheeks and set his forehead in a scowl.
“You ain’t?” he repeated harshly. “All right. Only don’t you come belly-aching around me to-morrow or any other time. I’m through with you.”
Without waiting for a reply, he went on his way with Shrimp, his lips pursed in a strident whistle. At the corner, however, he glanced back for an instant. McBride was on his feet and Conners stood beside him. Indeed, one ragged sleeve encircled the khaki shoulders supportingly and their heads were close together.
Garrity’s lips curled in a sneer, but the flush in his face deepened, and in his heart there was a queer, dull, comprehensive pang such as he had never known before.
About a week later Bill McBride appeared at Mr. Wendell’s study with two pair of nearly new boxing gloves dangling from his hands.
“I want to learn how to box,” he said directly to the scoutmaster. “I’m tired of trying to dope it out of a book.”
There was a rather bad bruise on one side of his face which Mr. Wendell observed without appearing to notice it.
“I’ll teach you all I know with pleasure, Bill,” he answered, smiling. “But I’m afraid that won’t be much more than the elements of the science. I haven’t had the gloves on for years.”
McBride’s eyes narrowed and his lips straightened in a firm line.
“I want to know more than elements, sir,” he stated. “I want to really know how to box.”
For a moment or two the scoutmaster stood thoughtfully silent. Then his eyes brightened.
“Of course!” he murmured. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it at once. I’ve a friend who’s a crackerjack with the gloves,” he went on to McBride. “It’s Chambers down at the bank; you probably know him. I’ll see if he won’t give you some lessons. I’ve an idea there are several other fellows who’d like to take it up.”
There were. As a matter of fact more than half the troop were eager to take up the new sport and for a time things were rather congested. Frank Chambers willingly lent his aid, agreeing to give at least one night a week to the instruction.
There was a large barn back of Mr. Wendell’s house and here the two men met their pupils every Tuesday night. The scoutmaster undertook to coach the smaller boys and those who failed to show especial proficiency or interest in the art. As soon as they developed any noticeable degree of skill, they were passed on to the more advanced teacher.
Bill McBride remained only a short time in the former class. There was no question of his keen interest and willingness to work. He never missed a chance to profit by instruction or to get practice. He even bought a punching bag which he put up at home and used whenever he had a few spare minutes.
He came in for considerable mild joshing from the others. They took to calling him Slugger McBride, and wanted to know how soon he was going to challenge the champion tissue-paper weight of Wharton. Micky took it all serenely, or made some apt retort, and before long his critics were silenced by his rapidly growing expertness at the art. Naturally quick and clever, and a good athlete, he soon developed a skill which surprised even his teachers. Almost from the first he could outbox every fellow in the class save Jim Cavanaugh, and even he was sometimes hard put to hold his own.
Cavvy, by the way, was the only person who had his confidence and knew what he was working for. He had been furious when Micky told about that encounter with Red Garrity, and at first was all for getting after the fellow and giving him a lesson. But in the end he had to abandon the idea.
“Nothing to it, old man,” declared McBride firmly. “It’s my scrap, you know, and I don’t want anyone else butting in. I’m going to wait till I can handle myself half way decently and then I’ll show that big piece of cheese where he gets off. It’ll be done fair and square, too.”
So Cavvy had to give up his plan of interfering, but his dislike for Garrity and his crowd was by no means lessened. In fact when Chick Conners appeared shyly at the troop meeting one night and it was rumored that he wanted to join the troop, the two friends came close to a violent disagreement.
“What kind of an institution will this troop be anyhow, if we take in that sort of riffraff?” the older chap demanded hotly on their way home. “I was wrong about Tallerico, I admit. He’s a good kid. But Conners and Garrity and that slimy McGowan and a lot more of ’em are all rotten. They’re not worth powder to blow ’em to—”
“Listen, Jim,” cut in Micky hastily. “You’re dead wrong. Conners isn’t that sort, anyhow. I told you how decent he was that—that day. He’s cut away from Garrity and the rest and he wants to be a scout. And when a fellow feels like that I believe in giving him a chance. At the worst we can always drop him from the troop—though I’m perfectly sure we won’t want to.”
Cavvy grumbled and protested, but in the end he gave in. The result was that at the next meeting Chick Conners was elected, and passed his Tenderfoot test, on which McBride had been coaching him, the same night. He passed it well, too, and even Cavanaugh, who still viewed him with suspicion, could find no fault with his demeanor, or the promptness and thoroughness of his answers.
The following Tuesday evening the attendance at the boxing class was small. Like a good many other experiments the general interest had lessened considerably as the novelty began to wear off. Some of the scouts found they did not care as much for it as they supposed they would. Others were not able to take the time from lessons, especially as preparatory details for the Liberty Loan Campaign was giving them a lot of extra work. But there were still six or eight eager enthusiasts who kept at it, chief amongst them Cavanaugh and McBride, who had come to be extraordinarily well matched. Cavvy had the longer reach and slightly stronger punch. But Micky could hit hard, too, was amazingly quick on his feet, and his brain seemed to work like greased lightning. That evening for the first time he held Cavvy in a bout of over fifteen minutes, which in the end was called a draw.
More than once Mr. Wendell found himself watching the boy with curious, speculative interest. It was McBride’s way to take up things he liked with enthusiasm and persistence. But in this matter the scoutmaster seemed to see a degree more of dogged purpose than usual. He felt, somehow, that the boy was working for some definite end, but he asked no questions. Just as the boys were leaving, however, he spoke to Micky at the barn door.
“You certainly gave Jim a run for his money to-night,” he remarked smiling. “You ought to be able to take care of yourself mighty soon with almost anybody at all near your weight.”
Still faintly flushed with exercise the boy glanced up from the gloves he was tying together. The lantern light shone on a face glowing with justifiable pleasure at his success. Then suddenly the eyes narrowed slightly and his lips straightened in an odd, determined line.
“That’s what I’ve been working for, sir,” he answered.
Red Garrity slouched through the wide gates of the Wharton Smelter Company and glanced indolently up and down the street. His application for a job had just been turned down by the superintendent, but that did not trouble him over much. He was used to it. In fact anything else would have surprised him after the caustic comment which had followed his last self determined vacation. He was a good worker—when he worked. But his habit of taking days off whenever he felt in the mood did not commend him to many employers of labor.
“Bum outfit to work for, anyhow,” he yawned, feeling in his pocket for a cigarette.
He neither found one nor the means of purchasing a fresh supply, and for the first time he looked annoyed. He would certainly have to land a job to-morrow and get some kale, he thought, as he strolled up the street toward Shrimp McGowan’s abode. He decided to try a certain wood working concern where he was little known, and dismissed the subject from his mind.
Shrimp was at home and responded to his yodel. As he slouched down the steps, yawning and blinking in the bright sunlight, a look of contempt came into Garrity’s eyes.
“Watcher been doing?” he demanded. “Sleeping?”
McGowan gaped again and nodded. “Nothing else to do,” he drawled.
Garrity sniffed scornfully and stifled a longing for Chick Conners, to whom he had not spoken for weeks. Whatever failings the latter youth might have, at least he had always been up and doing and ready for excursions of any sort Red might suggest.
“Well, there’s something doing now,” the latter remarked briefly. “We’re going out on the river road.”
Shrimp showed no signs of delight at the prospect, but after a weak protest he yielded—as he always did. He could not understand Red’s partiality for these country walks. It never occurred to him that the woods and fields and river could hold a subtle charm for this domineering boy who constantly belittled them in words and talked boastingly and regretfully of the lights and bustle and crowded excitements of the city. Indeed, Garrity had never really admitted as much even to himself, and in the old days he and Chick had always been at odds regarding the relative merits of town and country.
The road they took followed the windings of the Monhegan River. Overhead the sky was cloudless. The air was warm and mellow, yet with a tonic freshness in it which stirred the blood. The trees were beginning to turn, and their reds and yellows contrasted strongly with the dark bulk of pine and hemlock. Across the distant hills lay a faint, mellow Autumn haze.
It was a day to thrill any boy, and Garrity was perfectly conscious of its charm. As usual, however, he growled and grumbled at the dullness of the country, and talked longingly of his beloved Bowery, but somehow Shrimp’s slavish agreement failed to give him pleasure.
They threw stones at birds and squirrels, tossed rocks into the river and slashed at trees and bushes with destructive knives. They strolled erratically, visiting several orchards on the way, and finally reached the point where the stream, narrowing between rocky banks, flowed deep and swift toward a picturesque waterfall which made a favorite spot for picnicers and campers. Here they sat down in the shade of the hemlocks to eat their spoils.
“Funny you never came out with the bunch to swim,” remarked McGowan after an interval of silent munching. “I s’pose you’re a wonder at it,” he added with a touch of spiteful sarcasm that was characteristic.
For a second the ever-ready Garrity hesitated, his eyes fixed on the rushing water six feet below the steep bank.
“I ain’t any wonder, but I’m good enough,” he boasted. “After swimming in the East River there ain’t any particular fun splashing around in this dump. Where do you go in? Right here?”
“Gee, no! It’s too darn swift and rocky. There’s a nice pool below the falls, about a mile down. Anybody’d be a nut to try to here.”
“Huh!” grunted Garrity. “I guess I could take care of myself all right. Say! Looka that squirrel over there. Want to see me bean him?”
He sprang up and reached hastily for a loose stone lying on the very edge of the steep bank. For most of the way this was solid rock, but just here there happened to be a treacherous patch of moss-grown earth. Red’s eyes were fixed on the inquisitive little animal perched on the opposite bank, and he stepped rather closer to the edge than he intended. The next instant he felt a sickening give beneath his feet and made a wild, panicky effort to regain his balance. It failed. Clawing desperately at the smooth surface of the bank, he felt himself plunging down the deep incline, heard a smothered cry from Shrimp, and struck the water with a tremendous splash.
It seemed icy cold, and Red was smitten instantly by a keen despairing horror. In spite of his recent boasting, he had never ventured into the East River, or any other. All he knew of swimming was a few primitive strokes learned in one visit to a Y. M. C. A. pool which had never been repeated. Even those were forgotten during that smothering, choking immersion. When he finally came to the surface he struck out wildly, beating the water blindly and ineffectually with his hands. Already he had swept far past the spot where he had fallen in. Shrimp was nowhere to be seen. There was no one in sight—nothing save the cruel rocky banks and the blurred shadows of the hemlocks past which he was tossed helplessly.
In those awful moments which seemed like hours, a swift procession of vivid, fantastic pictures whirled through Red’s despairing brain. Then his head went under again and a moment later, dazed and half senseless, he felt himself driven against something hard and solid at which he clutched with all the strength and energy of desperation.
It was a boulder jutting up in midstream. For a moment Red’s progress was stayed, but he knew that it was only the briefest respite. The swirling current tugged at his legs and body; his numbed fingers slipped and slid across the smooth, waterworn surface. He thought of the fall below with its torrent of water thundering down to that bed of sharp pointed, fantastic rocks, and a gurgling, choking cry of horror and despair burst from his blue lips.
Garrity’s cry for help was purely instinctive. He had no hope at all that it would be answered, and his surprise was very great when the bushes on the bank above him were thrust aside and a slim figure appeared, to stare down in astonishment.
“Help!” he cried again. “I’m drowning! Help!”
There was a swift scurry on the bank—the opposite bank from the one from whence Red had come. A coat flew off; shoes were tossed aside. Garrity’s heart sank as he realized that it was only a boy smaller than himself, but in spite of everything he could not help admiring the clean, graceful, unhesitating dive with which the fellow took the water. Then suddenly he lost his hold on the rock and the current caught him again.
A moment later a dripping head rose beside him. Red caught at it wildly, but a foot struck him in the stomach and drove him sickeningly back.
“Stop that!” the voice beat on his dazed brain. “Don’t touch me and I’ll get you out.”