Tom Slade | Page 6

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 and in the other hand Bill Slade's battered but trusty
beer can. The portrait he laid face up on the table and set the can on it.
Perhaps it is expecting too much to assume that a city marshal would
have any sense of the fitness of things, but it was an unfortunate
moment to make such a mistake. As Mrs. O'Connor lifted the pail a
dirty ring remained on the face of the portrait.
"D'yer see wot yer done?" shrieked Tom, rushing at the marshal. "D'yer
see wot yer done?"
There was no stopping him. With a stream of profanity he rushed at the
offending marshal, grabbing him by the neck, and the man's head shook
and swayed as if it were in the grip of a mad dog.
It was in vain that poor Mrs. O'Connor attempted to intercede, catching
hold of the infuriated boy and calling,
"Oh, Tommy, for the dear Lord's sake, stop and listen to me!"
Tom did not even hear.
The marshal, his face red and his eyes staring, went down into the mud
of Barrel Alley and the savage, merciless pounding of his face could be
heard across the way.
While the other marshals pulled Tom off his half-conscious victim, the
younger contingent came down the street escorting a sauntering
blue-coat, who swung his club leisurely and seemed quite master of the
situation.
"He kilt him, he kilt him!" called little Sadie McCarren.
Tom, his scraggly hair matted, his face streaming, his chest heaving,
and his ragged clothing bespattered, stood hoisting up his suspender,
safe in the custody of the other two marshals.
"Take this here young devil around to the station," said one of the men,
"for assault and battery and interferin' with an officer of the law in the

performance of his dooty."
"Come along, Tom," said the policeman; "in trouble again, eh?"
"Can't yer leave him go just this time?" pleaded Mrs. O'Connor. "He
ain't himself at all--yer kin see it."
"Take him in," said the rising victim, "for interferin' with an officer of
the law in the performance of dooty."
"Where's his folks?" the policeman asked, not unkindly.
It was then the crowd discovered that Bill Slade had disappeared.
"I'll have to take you along," said the officer.
Tom said never a word. He had played his part in the proceedings, and
he was through.
"Couldn't yer leave him come over jist till I make him a cup o' coffee?"
Mrs. O'Connor begged.
"They'll give him his dinner at the station, ma'am," the policeman
answered.
Mrs. O'Connor stood there choking as Tom was led up the street, the
full juvenile force of Barrel Alley thronging after him.
"Wouldn' yer leave me pull my strap up?" he asked the policeman.
The officer released his arm, taking him by the neck instead, and the
last that Mrs. O'Connor saw Tom was hauling his one rebellious strand
of suspender up into place.
"Poor lad, I don't know what'll become uv him now," said Mrs.
O'Connor, pausing on her doorstep to speak with a neighbor.
"And them things over there an' night comin' on," said her companion.
"I wisht that alarm clock was took away--seems as if 'twas laughin' at

the whole thing--like."
"'Tain't only his bein' arrested," said Mrs. O'Connor, "but ther' ain't no
hope for him at all, as I kin see. Ther's no one can inflooence
him."
In Court, the next morning, the judge ruled out all reference to the
disfigurement of Mrs. Slade's portrait as being "incompetent and
irrelevant," and when the "assault and battery" could not be made to
seem "an act done in self-defense and by reason of the imminent peril
of the accused," Tom was taken to the "jug" to spend the balance of the
day and to ponder