Tom Slade | Page 5

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 fer joy-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 Temple emerged from the door behind him.
"Put down that stone, sir, or I'll lock you up!" said he with the air of 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 certain people of this town spent less for canvas uniforms to put on their boys to make tramps out of them, we should be able, perhaps, to build an addition to the jail."
"Ya-ah, an' you'd be de first one to go into it!" Tom yelled, as Temple reached the step of his car.
"What's that?" said Temple, turning suddenly.
"That's what!" shouted Tom, letting fly the stone. It went straight to its mark, removing "old" John's spring hat as effectually as a gust of wind, and leaving it embedded in the mud below the car.
[Illustration: "CAN'T YOU SEE WHAT THEY'RE A-DOIN?" ROARED HIS FATHER.]
CHAPTER III
IN JAIL AND OUT AGAIN

That night, when Tom Slade, all unaware of the tragedy which threatened his young life, shuffled into Billy's garage, he announced to his followers a plan which showed his master mind as leader of the gang. "Hey," said he, "I heard Sissy Bennett's mother say she's goin' ter have a s'prise party fer him Friday night, 'n' d'yer know wot I'm goin' ter do?"
"Tell him and spoil it fer him?" ventured Joe Flynn.
"Na-a-h!"
"Tick-tack?" asked Slush Ryder.
"Na-ah, tick-tacks is out o' date,"
"Cord ter trip 'em up?"
"Guess agin, guess agin," said Tom, exultantly.
But as no one ventured any further guesses, he announced his plan forthwith.
"Don't say a word-don't say a word," he ejaculated. "I swiped two o' thim quarantine signs offen two doors, 'n' I'm gon'er tack one up on Sissy's door Friday night! Can yer beat it?"
None of them could beat it, for it was an inspiration. To turn away Master Connover's young guests by this simple but effectual device was worthy of the leadership qualities of Tom Slade. Having thus advertised the possibilities of the signs he took occasion to announce,
"I got anoder one, an' I'll sell it fer a dime." But even though he marked it down to a dime, none would buy, so he announced his intention of raffling it off.
Before the momentous evening of Connover's party arrived, however, something else happened which had a curious and indirect effect upon the carrying out of Tom's plan.
On Wednesday afternoon three men came down Barrel Alley armed with a paper for Bill Slade. It was full of "whereases" and "now, therefores" and other things which Bill did not comprehend, but he understood well enough the meaning of their errand.
The stone which Tom had thrown at John Temple had rebounded with terrific force!
One man would have been enough, goodness knows, to do the job in hand, for there were only six or seven pieces of furniture. They got in each other's way a good deal and spat tobacco juice, while poor helpless, inefficient Bill Slade stood by watching them.
From various windows and doors the neighbors watched them too, and some congratulated themselves that their own rents were paid, while others wondered what would become of poor Tom now.
This was the scene which greeted Tom as he came down Barrel Alley from school.
"Wot are they doin'?" he asked.
"Can't you see wot they're a-doin'?" roared his father. "'Tain't them that's doin' it neither, it's you--you done it!! It's you took the roof from over my head, you and old John Temple!" Advancing menacingly, he poured forth a torrent of abuse at his wretched son.
"The two o' yez done it! You wid yer rocks and him wid his dirty marshals and judges! I'll get the both o' yez yet! Ye sneakin' rat!"
He would have struck Tom to the ground if Mrs. O'Connor, a mournful figure in shoddy black, had not crossed the street and forced her way between them.
"'Twas you done it, Bill Slade, and not him, and don't you lay yer hand on him--mind that! 'Twas you an' your whiskey bottle done it, you lazy loafer, an' the street is well rid o' you. Don't you raise your hand agin me, Bill Slade--I'm not afraid o' the likes o' you. I tell you 'twas you sent the poor boy's mother to her grave--you and your whiskey bottle!"
"I--I--ain't scared uv him!" said Tom.
"You stay right here now and don't be foolish, and me an' you'll go over an' have a cup o' coffee."
Just then one of the men emerged bearing in one arm the portrait of the late Mrs. Slade