It happened in Barrel Alley, and it was Tom Slade, as usual, who did it. Picking a barrel-stave out of the mud, he sidled up to Ching Wo’s laundry, opened the door, beat the counter with a resounding clamor, called, “Ching, Ching, Chinaman!” and by way of a grand climax, hurled the dirty barrel-stave at a pile of spotless starched shirts, banged the door shut and ran.

Tom was “on the hook” this morning. In one particular (and in only one) Tom was like “Old John Temple,” who owned the bank as well as Barrel Alley. Both took one day off a week. “Old John” never went down to the bank on Saturdays and Tom never went to school on Mondays. He began his school week on Tuesday; and the truant officer was just about as sure to cast his dreaded net in Barrel Alley on a Monday as old John Temple was sure to visit it on the first of the month—­when the rents were due.

This first and imminent rock of peril passed, Tom lost no time in offering the opening number of his customary morning program, which was to play some prank on Ching Wo. But Ching Wo, often disturbed, like a true philosopher, and knowing it was Monday, picked out the soiled shirts, piled up the others, threw the muddy stave out and quietly resumed his ironing.

Up at the corner Tom emerged around John Temple’s big granite bank building into the brighter spectacle of Main Street. Here he paused to adjust the single strand of suspender which he wore. The other half of this suspender belonged to his father; the two strands had originally formed a single pair and now, in their separate responsibilities, each did duty continuously, since neither Tom nor his father undressed when they went to bed.

His single strand of suspender replaced, Tom shuffled along down Main Street on his path of glory.

At the next corner was a coal-box. This he opened and helped himself to several chunks of coal. A little farther on he came to a trolley car standing still. Sidling up behind it, he grabbed the pole-rope, detaching the pulley from the wire.

The conductor emerged, shook his fist at the retreating boy and sent a few expletives after him. Tom then let fly one piece of coal after another at the rear platform of the car, keeping a single chunk for future use.

For, whenever Tom Slade got into a dispute (which was on an average of a dozen times a day), he invariably picked up a stone. Not that he expected always to throw it, though he often did, but because it illustrated his attitude of suspicion and menace toward the world in general, and toward other boys in particular.

So firmly rooted had the habit become that even indoors when his father threatened him (which was likewise on an average of a dozen times a day) he would reach cautiously down behind his legs, as if he expected to find a stone on the kitchen floor conveniently near at hand.

First and last, Tom had heard a good deal of unfavorable comment about his fancy for throwing stones. Mrs. Bennett, the settlement worker, had informed him that throwing stones was despicable, which went in one ear and out the other, because Tom did not know what “despicable” meant. The priest had told him that it was both wicked and cowardly; while the police had gone straight to the heart of the matter by threatening to lock him up for it.

And yet, you know, it was not until Tom met young Mr. Ellsworth, scoutmaster, that he heard something on the subject which stuck in his mind. On this day of Tom’s wild exploits, as he moved along a little further down the street he came to the fence which enclosed John Temple’s vacant lot. It was covered with gaudy posters and with his remaining piece of coal he proceeded to embellish these.

He was so absorbed in his decorative enterprise that he did not notice the person who was standing quietly on the sidewalk watching him, until he was aware of a voice speaking very sociably.

“I don’t think I should do that, my boy, if I were you.”

Tom paused (in the middle of a most unwholesome sentence) and saw a young gentleman, perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, looking pleasantly at him. He was extremely well-dressed in a natty blue serge suit, and to Tom his appearance was little less than gorgeous.

The boy’s first impulse was, of course, to run, and he made a start as if to do so. Then, fearing perhaps that there was not a clear get-away, he stooped for a stone.

“What are you going to do with that?” asked the young gentleman, smiling.

“Nartin.”

“You weren’t going to throw it at me, I hope, while I am standing three feet from you.”

Tom was a little nonplussed. “I wouldn’t t’row no stone standin’ near yer,” he grumbled.

“Good,” said the young man; “you have some ideas about sporting, haven’t you? Though, of course, you’re no sport—­or you wouldn’t have picked up a stone at all.”

Now this was great news to Tom. He knew he was no gentleman; Mrs. Bennett had told him that. He knew he was a hoodlum; the trolley conductors had told him that. He knew that he was lazy and shiftless and unkempt and a number of other things, for the world at large had made no bones of telling him so; but never, never for one moment had he supposed that he was no sport. He had always believed that to hit a person with a stone and “get away with it” represented the very top-notch of fun, and sporting proficiency.

So he looked at this young man as if he thought that he had inadvertently turned the world upside down.

“Give me that piece of coal, my boy, and let’s see if we can’t mark out that last word.”

“Yer’ll git yer hand all dirty wid coal,” said Tom, hardly knowing what else to say.

“Well, a dirty hand isn’t as bad as a filthy word; besides, I’m rooting in the dirt with my hands all summer, anyway,” said the young man, as he marked out Tom’s handiwork. “There,” he added, handing back the coal, “that’s not so bad now; guess neither one of us is much of an artist, hey? See that scratch?” he went on, exhibiting his hand to Tom. “I got that shinning up a tree. Come on, let’s beat it; first thing you know a cop will be here.”

Tom hardly knew what to think of this strange, sumptuously-attired creature whose hands were rooting in the dirt all summer, and who got a scratch (which he proudly exhibited) from shinning up a tree; who said “beat it” when he meant “go away,” and who called a policeman a “cop.”

Tom rather liked the way this strange man talked, though it was not without a tinge of suspicion that he accompanied him along the street, casting furtive glances at his luxurious attire, wondering how such as he could climb a tree.

“You couldn’t shin up no tree,” he presently ventured.

“Oh, couldn’t I, though?” laughed his companion. “I’ve shinned up more trees than you’ve got fingers and toes.”

“When you was a kid?”

“I’m a kid now, and don’t you forget it. And 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