A Son of the City Part 23

"We won," said Silvey happily, as they stopped in front of his house.

"Come on, now, all together!"

They broke into the "Tigers'" exultant war cry, which is very much the same as that of the football team to which you belonged as a boy:

Sis-boom-bah!

Sis-boom-bah!

"Tigers," "Tigers,"

Rah, rah, rah!

Then they left for their several homes, too worn out to do anything but rest.

Up in his room John threw himself on the bed with a sigh. His injured leg hurt terribly--but they'd won. Pity Louise had missed the defeat of the "Jeffersons." Why did women folks always have to go shopping, anyway? Only spent a lot of money on hats and other foolishness.

He turned over wearily and found the yellow pig bank leering at him from the bureau with hungry, malignant eyes. Where was that apportioned two dollars which he was to earn by the end of the week? Four days had already elapsed, and the beast's interior was as empty as it had been on the toy-shop shelf. Why had he bought those lemon drops on Monday? And the marbles and his rubber spear top? Was there anything left after the s.h.i.+n-guard purchase? He sat up on the edge of the bed and rummaged in his pockets. One lonely penny remained from his weekly allowance of a quarter.

He dropped the coin into the long slot and shook the pig disgustedly.

Two dollars could never be earned by Sat.u.r.day night. Not even if three lawns were to be cut, and a half-dozen errands run for the neighbors. He slammed the big china animal back on the bureau and went down to supper.

The lonely copper had seemed to make the beast sound more hollow than ever as it rattled against the unglazed interior.

That night the wind veered to the south, and Friday proved to be mild and sunny, save for a touch of autumnal haze in the air. But not even this freakish return of summer could rouse him from the grumpy mood which held over from the night before.

He scanned the front yards on the street as he sulked along to school.

How slowly gra.s.s grew in the fall! Not a lawn needed tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, and as for freeing them from leaves, the nearly denuded boughs made such operations unnecessary. Coin of the realm seemed further away than ever.

In the afternoon, the haze thickened and hinted of rain. As he and Louise sauntered homeward, a drop of water spattered on her cheek.

Another hit him on the nose, and it was but a short time before the cement sidewalks were covered with rapidly merging mosaics of a darker hue.

What luck! Dimes and even quarters, quickly and easily earned, were within his grasp. He left Louise at the apartment entrance and dashed into his own front hall in great excitement.

"I've got the umbrellas," he shouted, as he struggled into his raincoat.

"I'm going out with them."

"Don't take my good one," Mrs. Fletcher cautioned. But he was beyond earshot, best umbrella and all, before the words were out of her mouth.

Down the water-glazed street he ran, its dust now laid by the refres.h.i.+ng, pounding torrent, past the barrier of the railroad ticket office, thanks to the friendly agent, and up the worn steps to the station platform. Other boys were there, each with two or three umbrellas, who viewed the newcomer with disfavor. Ere long, each suburban train from town would discharge its quota of daintily dressed shoppers, pallid office clerks and stenographers and prosperous business men. Not one of them would carry protection from the soaking rain, and compet.i.tion between the juvenile vendors threatened to become acute.

A lean, light suburban engine pulled in amid a cloud of escaping steam and a hissing of airbrakes. John spied a tall slender woman in a car doorway arranging a paper over her hat, and raced along beside the platform until it came to a halt.

"Umbrella home, lady?"

She nodded. "To the hotel."

Behind her loomed a tall, slightly bowed, black-haired lawyer whom John had seen on the long, wooden veranda of that subst.i.tute for home more times than he could count on his ten fingers. He, too, took advantage of a rented shelter. Together the couple made their way down the dripping steps while John followed exultantly. Two at once--and the hotel but a scant block and a half away! At the broad entrance, they paused.

"How much do I owe you, little boy?" asked the lady, with a smile.

"Dime," was the laconic answer. Another train was due in ten minutes and there was no time to waste. She opened a dainty leather purse, while the lawyer paid his debt from a pocketful of small change. Twenty cents at once. That _was_ luck. A moment later John was sprinting back at top speed.

No double fare the next time, but the helpless stenographer lived a street farther west, and each additional block meant another nickel according to the unwritten umbrella tariff.

"Fifteen cents, madam," he demanded.

She retreated discreetly to the shadow of the apartment hallway to dive into her stocking bank, while he watched two bedraggled sparrows on the sidewalk until she reappeared.

On his return, he found the trains running on the five-minute, rush-hour schedule. Each carried its revenue of small change for the eager, clamoring boys. Once, a gray-haired, kindly-eyed man gave John a quarter and would receive no change, and another time a friend of his mother's did likewise. But for the most part, ten- and fifteen-cent fees were his lot.

Rifts in the misty clouds to the west appeared, which hinted of an end to the rain. Nevertheless, he jingled the change in his pocket light-heartedly. He had made more in the brief eighty minutes than he could cutting the Langley's lawn, or by other juvenile ch.o.r.es which would consume a like time. And, if he were fortunate, there was still time for another customer before the storm ceased.

He found her. She was dressed in some rustling brown taffeta stuff and carried her hat in a carefully pinned page of newspaper. Her face was sunken and lined and rouged to lessen the ravages of age, and her hair was palpably mismatched. Moreover, instinct warned that his offer would be refused, for she was one of the tall, skinny folks. Nevertheless, he approached her.

"Umbrella home, lady? Can I take you home under an umbrella?"

He could. Instantly all criticism of her personal appearance vanished.

True, she might be trying to keep up appearances like the old-maid teacher who scolded knowledge into the eighth-grade cla.s.s, but she was willing to spend money for his benefit, and that made all the difference in the world.

Past the hotel they went, and down the five long, successive blocks of gray stone university buildings which flanked that side of the boulevard. John's spirits rose. His last was to be a quarter customer, at the least. Then they turned southward and dodged pools of water in the muddy street crossings and on the walks for another two squares. She halted at a grimy, run-down apartment building and closed the umbrella.

Thirty-five cents! He opened his mouth to name the fee, but she interrupted him.

"Here's the umbrella, little boy." She stepped into the stuffy, badly-lighted hallway. "Thank you very much for taking me home."

Before he could say a word of protest, the weather-beaten oak door swung to in his face and the lady fled up the stairs.

When he had recovered from his surprise, he stamped angrily in after her. What should he do? He wanted that money. He didn't care if she had disappeared. He'd ring the bell and keep on ringing it until she answered or the batteries gave out. But which bell? The building was four-storied, with flats front and rear, and which of the cramped apartments did she occupy? And there were dozens of roomers' cards over the dusty speaking tubes. To find her was impossible. He had been tricked, and tricked nicely, and he might as well go back.

When he was a block from the station the rain changed to a sudden fine drizzle and halted. The umbrella business was ended for the afternoon.

Nevertheless, he had been fairly successful. If that old maid had paid what was due him, the small change in his pocket would have totaled a dollar and thirty cents. But ninety-five cents wasn't bad, as it was.

He sauntered in from the dark street a few minutes later and stacked the dripping umbrellas in the rack in the hallway. Then he burst into the kitchen to tell his mother the news.

"What will you do with all that money, son?"

He blinked a moment at the brilliancy of the gas-light, and guessed he'd save most of it. At that Mrs. Fletcher smiled, and he grinned sheepishly back. She had probably guessed the secret. Mothers had uncanny ways of seeing right into fellows, and he might as well tell her now.

"Louise and I are going to be married when I'm twenty-one," he blurted.

"I'm starting to save now, and she's going to get her mother to teach her how to cook beefsteaks and keep house."

Then he ducked from her amused kisses and ran up to his room. Down came the pig bank from the resting place on the bureau, and out on the white coverlet came the result of his work. Piece by piece the money disappeared in the narrow slot, until not even a nickel was left for lemon drops at the school store. Then he shook the porker with satisfaction. It didn't sound so empty now, and the hungry look seemed to have disappeared from the yellow china face. The eyes held an expression of sleepy content, if an insensate bit of china could do such a thing.

Ninety-six cents was a good start. But he'd have to hustle every minute of Sat.u.r.day morning. The advent of autumn had so discouraged the growth of gra.s.s on the home street that he would have to invade Southern Avenue. Surely he could find some sort of a job on that long, well-groomed street.

After breakfast he sneaked off to drag the lawn-mower from its storage place in the bas.e.m.e.nt. The rattle and bang of the iron frame against the area steps caught Mrs. Fletcher's alert ear. She raised the little side-pantry window and looked out as he lifted the implement up on the walk.

"John!"

"Yes, Mother?" A sheepish note crept into his voice. "Taking the mower out of the bas.e.m.e.nt; that's all."

"Where are you going with it?"

Oh, nowhere in particular. He hoped to earn a little money; that was all.