Tom Slade | Page 3

I'll give you a tip, too.
Grind up some bark in your hands--it works fine."
They walked on silently for a little way; an ill-assorted pair they must
have seemed to a passer-by, the boy hitching up his suspender as often
as it slid from his shoulder in his shuffling effort to keep up with the
alert stride of his companion.
"Trouble with stone-throwing is that there isn't any skill in it. You
know what Buck Edwards said, don't you? He said he'd have learned to
pitch much easier if it hadn't been for throwing stones when he was a
kid. He used to be a regular fiend at it, and when he came to passing
curves he couldn't make his first finger behave. You think Buck can
beat that pitcher the Prep. boys have got?"
"Dem High School guys is all right."
"Well, Buck's a good pitcher. I don't suppose I've thrown a stone in ten
years. But I bet I could practice for ten minutes and beat you out. You
smoke, don't you?"
"N-no--yeer, I do sometimes."
"Just caught the truth by the tail that time, didn't you?" the young man
laughed. "Well, a kid can't aim steady if he smokes: that's one sure
thing."
Tom was seized with a strange desire to strengthen his companion's
side of the case. The poor boy had few enough arguments, goodness

knows, in defense of his own habits, and his information was meagre
enough. Yet the one little thing which he seemed to remember about
the other side of stone-throwing he now contributed willingly.
"It's bad too if you ever land a guy one in the temple."
"Well, I don't know; I don't think there's so much in that, though there
may be. I landed a guy one in the temple with a stick last
summer--accident, of course, and I thought it would kill him, but it
didn't."
Tom was surprised and fascinated by the stranger's frankness.
"But a fellow that throws stones is no sport, that's sure, and you can
mark that up in your brain if you happen to have a lump of coal handy."
"I chucked that coal--honest."
"Good."
It had been Tom's intention to go down through Chester Street and steal
an apple from Schmitt's Grocery, but instead he accompanied his new
friend until that mysterious person turned to enter a house.
"Guess we didn't swap names, did we?" the stranger said, holding out
his hand.
It was the first time that Tom Slade had grasped anyone's hand in many
a day.
"Tom--Tom Slade," he said, hitching up his suspender.
"So? Mine's Ellsworth. Come up to the Library building and see us
some Friday night--the boys, I mean."
"Oh, are you the boss o' them regiment fellers?"
"Not exactly the boss; scouts we call ourselves."

"What's a scout? A soldier, like?"
"No, a scout's a fellow that does stunts and things."
"I betcher you kin do a few."
"I bet I can!" laughed Mr. Ellsworth; "you said it! I've got some of
those boys guessing." Which was the plain truth.
"Drop in some Friday night and see us; don't forget now."
Tom watched him as he ascended the steps of a neighboring porch. He
had a strange fascination for the boy, and it was not till the door closed
behind him that Tom's steady gaze was averted. Then he shuffled off
down the street.
CHAPTER II
"HATS OFF"

Tom Slade awoke at about eleven o'clock, swung his legs to the floor,
yawned, rubbed his eyes, felt blindly for his tattered shoes and sniffed
the air.
Something was wrong, that was sure. Tom sniffed again. Something
had undoubtedly happened. The old familiar odor which had dwelt in
the Slade apartment all winter, the stuffy smell of bed clothes and dirty
matting, of kerosene and smoke and fried potatoes and salt-fish and
empty beer bottles, had given place to something new. Tom sniffed
again.
Then, all of a sudden, his waking senses became aware of his father
seated 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, and the

spring air, gracious and democratic, was pouring in amid the squalor
just as it was pouring in through the wide-swung cathedral windows 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 a
pint."
"Ain't we goin' to have no eats?"
"No, we ain't goin' ter have no eats. You tell Barney to give ye a cup o'
coffee; tell 'im I said so."
"Awh, he wouldn' give me