A Son of the City | Page 2

voice sounded a sleepy protest.
Minutes passed. His legs became cramped from inaction, yet he dared
not stir. Were his parents asleep? Or was Mrs. Fletcher waiting merely
until some tell-tale noise enabled her to order John senior forth on an
expedition which would result in certain detection? If he had only
avoided that misstep!
Then the kindly fast-mail thundered over the railroad tracks and
enabled the seeker after forbidden pleasures to scurry to the first floor
under cover of the disturbance.
In the hallway, the boy deposited his shoes and tackle very cautiously
on the carpet, and tiptoed over to the unused grate. There he extracted
from behind the gas log a package of sandwiches, surreptitiously
assembled after supper the night before. Then with both hands grasping
the doorknob firmly, he strained upwards, that weight be thrown off the
squeaking hinges as much as possible, and swung the door back, inch
by inch, until the opening permitted a successful exit.
The old cat bounded from her bed on the window ledge with a thud and
mewed plaintively for admittance as he stood with one hand on the
screen door, and fumbled in his pockets. Sinkers, spare hooks, a line
with a nail at one end on which to string possible victims of his skill,
"eats," his dollar watch that he might know when breakfast time came
around--all present and accounted for.
The family pet protested volubly as he blocked her ingress with one

foot and closed the door as slowly and noiselessly as it had swung open.
A moment spent in lacing his shoes, a consoling pat for puss, and he
was off on the dogtrot for Silvey's house, with tackle swinging easily to
and fro in one hand and a noiseless whistle of exultation coming from
half-parted lips which became more and more audible as his rapidly
echoing footsteps increased the distance from home. For he had made
good his escape, the strange fragrance of the cool, early air with its
absence of city smoke went to his head like wine and set his pulses
a-throb with a very joy of living, and five hours, three hundred glorious
minutes, if the excursion were stretched a bit past breakfast time, of
enchanting, tantalizing sport lay before him.
A short distance from the corner, he turned in abruptly at a frame house
which was distinguished from its neighbors by unusually ornate
fretwork about the porch and gables, and tiptoed gently over the
struggling grass on the narrow sidelawn. For it was here that the Silvey
family lived, and if Bill were his boon companion with tastes akin to
his, strange to relate, the Silvey elders were light sleepers with the same
propensities as his own parents for curbing unlawful fishing
expeditions, and there was need of caution.
He fumbled momentarily along the dark sidewall, yanked at a cord
which swayed idly to and fro with each light air current, and gazed
expectantly upward. Nothing happened. Again a jerk, given this time
with a certain vindictive delight. A muffled "Ouch!" came from the
open window as a splotch of animated white appeared indistinctly
behind the dark screen.
"Trying to pull my big toe off?" angrily.
John snickered. "Got the worms?" he asked.
Silvey swallowed his wrath and nodded. "Sh-sh, not so loud. You'll
wake the folks. The can's on the back steps. Ain't many worms though.
I hunted under the porch and down the tracks and all over. But the
ground's too dry."
John shook the nearly empty can disparagingly as Silvey joined him on

the back lawn a moment later.
"Jiminy," he whispered, "that all you could find?"
His chum nodded. "Maybe there's old worms or minnies from
yesterday left on the pier. Or we can cut up the first fish for perch bait.
Come on! Beat you over the tracks."
They scaled the wire fence which barricaded the embankment, and cut
across the long parallel lines of rails like frisky colts. Past the few
unkempt buildings of the neighborhood dairy, over the small bit of
pasturage where the master thereof kept a dozen cows that his
customers might think their milk was fresh, daily, and across the
cement road, they scampered at top speed, to pull up panting just inside
the park.
"Bet you I get to the lagoon bridge first," said Silvey when their
breathing grew less labored.
Off they raced again, now on the trim gravel walks, now on the springy
dew-laden turf, frightening a myriad of insects from their shelters as the
pair brushed aside protruding shrubbery and brought a chorus of
reproof from rusty-plumed grackles who were gathering in the open
spaces for the long migration south.
As their footsteps echoed and re-echoed between the stone buttresses of
the wooden planked bridge, John halted to dig frantically