  The little group of scouts filed out of the room and left the house quietly enough, but once in the street their tongues were loosened. “I think he’s wrong,” declared Cavvy, in his impulsive, rather positive manner. “You know what kind of a bunch that mine gang is. I’ll bet a soda you couldn’t haul one into the troop with a rope.” “Still, it’s just as Mr. Wendell says,” remarked Clay Marshall. He was tall and rather quiet, and took his new position as leader of the Owl Patrol very seriously. “They’ve never had a chance.” “They’ve never asked for one,” returned Cavanaugh. “This—er—Tallerico is the first one I ever heard of who showed the slightest desire to belong.” Bill McBride laughed. “Well, I don’t know as you can blame them for that. You know how much the fellows run in sets in this town. I don’t suppose even those chaps would try and push themselves in where they think they’re not wanted.” Cavvy frowned impatiently. “That’s not the point,” he retorted. “They haven’t tried; anyway they’re not the sort we want. Can you imagine Red Garrity a scout?” he added triumphantly. There was a momentary silence and into the minds of those present there flashed a picture of the ragged, red-haired, pugnacious young tough in question. A leader of his kind, he smoked and swore and lost no chance to jeer openly at the scouts whenever they crossed his path. “Humph!” grunted Ted Hinckley. “At present he don’t seem very promising. But I’ll tell you this, old man; if he ever got the scout bug, he’d make a crackerjack.” “You make me sick,” sniffed Cavvy. “He’d never get the scout bug, as you call it—never in a thousand years.” By this time they had reached the center of the town and paused in front of the Post Office. “Well, that don’t apply to Tallerico,” remarked Harry Ritter. “He has applied and he wants to get in.” “I can’t say I want him either,” declared Cavanaugh stubbornly. “What does a wop like that care about scouting, I’d like to know.” Ritter pursed up his lips. He rarely lost a chance of arguing. “None of us knew much about it when we first joined,” he returned. “We picked it up afterwards. He doesn’t seem half bad to me, even if he is a foreigner.” “That’s just it!” Cavvy caught him up hotly. “He is a foreigner. What do you s’pose he knows or cares about the flag, or patriotism or anything like that? Those fellows don’t give a hang about this country. Dad says they all come over here just because they can make more money than at home. As soon as they’ve saved up enough they hustle back to spend it over there. They’re not Americans and never will be, even if a few of them do get naturalized. We don’t want that kind in the troop.” A brief silence fell upon the boys, some of whom looked convinced, others doubtful. Jim Cavanaugh’s statements, even when slightly illogical as at present, frequently carried the crowd, for he was the type which dominates by sheer force of temperament. Besides, his father was superintendent of the iron mines, and one whose opinion carried weight. Nevertheless, Ritter refused to relinquish his stand so readily. “Maybe that’s true of some of them, but why shouldn’t this fellow be an exception,” he persisted. “I was talking to him last night and he doesn’t seem like a foreigner. He speaks English all right, and he’s got some good ideas about scouting. Besides, you know what Mr. Wendell said.” Cavvy frowned impatiently. He had an uncomfortable feeling of being somehow in the wrong, but opposition always roused all that was stubborn and contentious in his disposition. “Of course I do,” he snapped. “I was there, wasn’t I? You’ll remember, perhaps, that he also said the troop was our own and that we have the right to take in or keep out whoever we choose. Of course you fellows can do as you please, but I know what I’m talking about and how I’m going to vote. Come ahead, Micky; the whistle blew five minutes ago.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned away and with Bill McBride, walked briskly down the street. His temper was distinctly ruffled, the more so, perhaps, from the realization that his arguments had been far from strong. He was also annoyed and disgruntled at Mr. Wendell for having brought up the subject at all, and particularly for the attitude he had taken. For a time he walked on silently. Then he glanced at his companion. “Fat’s such an ass,” he remarked. McBride smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “He does love to hear himself talk,” he chuckled. “He likes it almost as well as eating. Still, of course there is a little something in what he said. I suppose we might broaden out some without hurting ourselves. A roughneck like Garrity would be the limit, but this—” He broke off with an exclamation of interest. “There he is now!” “Huh? What—who?” “That Tallerico kid over there in front of the old Jessup house.” Cavvy frowned and glanced quickly across the street. Their short cut home took them through the older portion of town—a region of ancient, tumble-down houses, once the abode of wealth and fashion, but long since given over to laborers and workmen in the mines. Amongst these dingy, decrepit tenements the Jessup house stood forth with a faded, forlorn distinction. In its simple, dignified proportions, in the graceful fanlight above the door, and in certain delicate bits of molding and carving, there remained traces of the colonial mansion where General Washington had slept more than once in the early winters of the Revolution. On the threshold, one hand resting on the latch, stood a boy of fourteen or so, short, square-built, with dark, wavy hair and olive skin warmly tinged with red. His lips were half parted and his dark eyes rested eagerly on the faces of the two across the street, whom he had apparently just noticed. But as their glances quickly shifted, a shadow swept across his face and jerking open the door, he disappeared within. Cavanaugh felt a sudden twinge of conscience, and to elude it he burst into abrupt denunciation. “It’s a darn shame about that house!” he exclaimed hotly. “Think of a place where Washington slept let go to rack and ruin that way and turned into a tenement for dagos! Any other town would buy it and keep it up decently. They’d be proud of it. Look at those windows—every blooming one broken and patched up with paper and stuff. It’s disgusting!” “There’s two whole ones,” remarked McBride—“up-stairs to the left.” “What do they amount to?” sniffed Cavvy. “It’s an accident they’re not busted like the rest, that’s all. I’ve half a mind to get after dad and see if he can’t wake up the mayor or somebody to do something about it. Why, when I was down at Mount Vernon last year—” But Micky wasn’t particularly interested in Mount Vernon. He had heard all about that trip once and was more intent now on getting home to lunch than working up indignation on any subject. He listened carelessly, occasionally punctuating Cavvy’s tirade with a joke, but when they paused at his gate his mind had veered to another subject altogether. “Come on down after lunch and bring your football,” he called, from half-way up the walk. “We’ll round up the bunch and have a little practice.” “All right,” returned Cavanaugh absently. Intent upon his new-born project, he presently burst into the Cavanaugh dining room, smoothing his rebellious crop with one hand and wiping the back of the other—which had escaped the towel—against his coat. “Where’s dad?” he exclaimed, stopping short. “He hasn’t gone yet, has he?” “He couldn’t get home to lunch to-day,” explained his mother quietly. “He telephoned that he’d have to stay at the mine.” “That’s funny.” The boy dropped into his chair and unfolded his napkin. Almost never, except at the time of the big cave-in three years before, had his father failed to run home in the car for their mid-day meal. “There hasn’t been an accident, has there?” “No; it’s something about the men. There’s been some trouble amongst them for several days, and—” “Ginger!” Cavvy straightened up. “Maybe it’s those anarchists. Why don’t they run them out of town? All they do is to try and upset everything and make trouble for the Government. I bet they’re paid by the Germans!” Mrs. Cavanaugh smiled. She was used to her son’s outbursts. “Running them out of town isn’t as easy as it sounds,” she said. “Unfortunately, some of them belong here and have their rights like any other citizens.” “Well, the mayor might do something,” contended Cavvy, applying himself to his lunch. “Does dad think there’s going to be trouble?” “He didn’t say, but I’m afraid he’s a little worried. They’re to have some kind of a mass meeting this afternoon, and you know how easily those foreigners are sometimes swayed. We’ll hope for the best, though. They’ve always been well treated and seemed contented, and with all this extra work ahead I don’t see how they can possibly complain.” Her anxiety, and the desire to keep it suppressed, caused her to forget for the moment her intention of forbidding Jim to go near the mine that afternoon. When the omission occurred to her, ten minutes after lunch was over, the boy was nowhere to be found. He had been expecting something of the sort, and had lost no time in departing quietly by the side door. A convenient lane brought him quickly to the rear of the McBride house, where a yodel summoned Micky. “Hustle,” said Cavvy briefly. “There’s something doing down at the mine and we want to be in on it.” McBride nodded. “I heard ’em talking it at lunch. Do you s’pose they’re going to have a strike, or something?” “Don’t know; they’ll be fools if they do. Anyhow, there’s going to be a mass meeting this afternoon, and maybe they’ll decide then.” |
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