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 no pint widout de money.”

“He wouldn’, wouldn’ he? I’ll pint you!”

“I ain’t goin’ ter graft on him no more.”

“Git me a dime off Tony then and stop in Billy’s comin’ back ‘n’ tell him I got the cramps agin and can’t work.”

“He’ll gimme the laugh.”

“I’ll give ye the other kind of a laugh if ye don’t beat it. I left you sleep till eleven o’clock—­”

“You didn’ leave me sleep,” said Tom. “Yer only woke up yerself half an hour ago.”

“Yer call me a liar, will ye?” roared Bill Slade, rising.

Tom took his usual strategic position on the opposite side of the table, and as his father moved ominously around it, kept the full width of it between them. When he reached a point nearest the sink he grabbed a dented pail therefrom and darted out and down the stairs.

Up near Grantley Square was a fence which bore the sign, “Post No Bills.” How this had managed to escape Tom hitherto was a mystery, but he now altered it, according to the classic hoodlum formula, so that it read, “Post No Bills,” and headed up through the square for Barney Galloway’s saloon. Bill Slade had been reduced to long-distance intercourse in the matter of saloons for he had exhausted his credit in all the places near Barrel Alley.

In the spacious garden of John Temple’s home a girl of twelve or thirteen years was bouncing a ball. This was Mary Temple, and what business “old” John Temple had with such a pretty and graceful little daughter, I am not qualified to explain.

“Chuck it out here,” said Tom, “an’ I’ll ketch it in the can.”

She retreated a few yards into the garden, then turned, and gave Tom a withering stare.

“Chuck it out here and I’ll chuck it back—­honest,” called Tom.

The girl’s dignity began to show signs of collapse. She wanted to have that ball thrown, and to catch it.

“Will you promise to toss it back?” she weakened.

“Sure.”

“Word and honor?”

“Sure.”

“Cross your heart?”

“Sure.”

Still she hesitated, arm in air.

“Will you promise to throw it back?”

“Sure, hope to die. Chuck it.”

“Get back a little,” said she.

The ball went sailing over the paling, Tom caught it, gave a yell of triumph, beat a tattoo upon the can, and ran for all he was worth.

Outside the saloon Tom borrowed ten cents from Tony, the bootblack, on his father’s behalf, and with this he purchased the beer.

Meanwhile, the bad turn which he had done had begun to sprout and by the time he reached home it had grown and spread to such proportions that Jack’s beanstalk was a mere shrub compared with it. Nothing was farther from John Temple’s thoughts that beautiful Saturday than to pay a visit to Barrel Alley. On the contrary, he was just putting on his new spring hat to go out to the Country Club for a turn at golf, when Mary came in crying that Tom Slade had stolen her ball.

Temple cared nothing about the ball, nor a great deal about Mary’s tears, but the mention of Tom Slade reminded him that the first of the month was close at hand and that he had intended to “warn” Bill Slade with the usual threat of eviction. Bill had never paid the rent in full after the second month of his residence in Barrel Alley. When he was working and Temple happened to come along at a propitious moment, Bill would give him two dollars or five dollars, as the case might be, but as to how the account actually stood he had not the slightest idea.

If Tom had not sent Mary Temple into the house crying her father would never have thought to go through Barrel Alley on his way out to the Country Club, but as it was, when Tom turned into the Alley from Main Street, he saw Mr. Temple’s big limousine car standing in front of his own door.

If there was one thing in this world more than another dear to the heart of Tom Slade, it was a limousine car. Even an Italian organgrinder did not offer the mischievous possibilities of a limousine. He had a regular formula for the treatment of limousines which was as sure of success as a “cure all.”

Placing his pail inside the doorway, he approached the chauffeur with a suspiciously friendly air which boded mischief. After a strategic word or two of cordiality, he grasped the siren horn, tooted it frantically, pulled the timer aroundr opened one of the doors, jumped in and out of the opposite door, leaving both open, and retreated as far as the corner, calling, “Yah-h-h-h-h!”

In a few minutes he returned very cautiously, sidled up to the house door, and took his belated way upstairs.

Tom placed his pail on the lower step of the stair leading up to the floor above his own, but did not enter the room whence emanated the stern voice of John Temple and the lying excuses of his father. He went down and out on the door step and sat on the railing, gazing at the chauffeur with an exasperating look of triumph.

“I wouldn’ be no lousy Cho-fure,” he began.

The chauffeur (who received twenty-five dollars a week) did not see the force of this remark.

“Runnin’ over kids all de time-you lie, yer did too!”

The chauffeur looked straight ahead and uttered not a word.

“Yer’d be in jail if ’twuzn’t fer old John paying graft ter 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.

Chapter III