Tom Slade : Boy Scout of the Moving Pictures Read online

  Produced by Curtis A. Weyant, Charles Franks and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team.

  "I SWIPED TWO O' THEM QUARANTINE SIGNS OFFEN TWO DOORS."]

  TOM SLADE

  BOY SCOUT OF THE MOVING PICTURES

  BY

  PERCY K. FITZHUGH

  Adapted and Illustrated from the Photo Play

  "The Adventures of a Boy Scout"

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  I. STICKS AND STONES II. HATS OFF! III. IN JAIL AND OUT AGAIN IV. CAMP SOLITAIRE V. CONNOVER'S PARTY VI. HITTING THE BULL'S EYE VII. "ON MY HONOR" VIII. STUNG! IX. "BURGLARS" X. TOM TURNS DETECTIVE XI. R-R-R-EVENGE! XII. UP AGAINST IT FOR FAIR XIII. HE WHO HAS EYES TO SEE XIV. ROY TO THE RESCUE XV. LEMONADE AND OLIVES XVI. CONNOVER BREAKS LOOSE XVII. THE REAL THINGXVIII. MRS. BENNETT COMES ACROSS XIX. FIRST AID BY WIRELESS XX. TOM TOSSES IT BACK

  TOM SLADE

  BOY SCOUT OF THE MOVING PICTURES

  CHAPTER I

  STICKS AND STONES

  It happened in Barrel Alley, and it was Tom Slade, as usual, who didit. Picking a barrel-stave out of the mud, he sidled up to Ching Wo'slaundry, opened the door, beat the counter with a resounding clamor,called, "Ching, Ching, Chinaman!" and by way of a grand climax, hurledthe dirty barrel-stave at a pile of spotless starched shirts, bangedthe 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 BarrelAlley. Both took one day off a week. "Old John" never went down to thebank on Saturdays and Tom never went to school on Mondays. He began hisschool week on Tuesday; and the truant officer was just about as sureto cast his dreaded net in Barrel Alley on a Monday as old John Templewas sure to visit it on the first of the month--when the rents weredue.

  This first and imminent rock of peril passed, Tom lost no time inoffering the opening number of his customary morning program, which wasto play some prank on Ching Wo. But Ching Wo, often disturbed, like atrue philosopher, and knowing it was Monday, picked out the soiledshirts, piled up the others, threw the muddy stave out and quietlyresumed his ironing.

  Up at the corner Tom emerged around John Temple's big granite bankbuilding into the brighter spectacle of Main Street. Here he paused toadjust the single strand of suspender which he wore. The other half ofthis suspender belonged to his father; the two strands had originallyformed a single pair and now, in their separate responsibilities, eachdid duty continuously, since neither Tom nor his father undressed whenthey went to bed.

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

  At the next corner was a coal-box. This he opened and helped himself toseveral chunks of coal. A little farther on he came to a trolley carstanding 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 afew expletives after him. Tom then let fly one piece of coal afteranother at the rear platform of the car, keeping a single chunk forfuture use.

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

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

  First and last, Tom had heard a good deal of unfavorable comment abouthis fancy for throwing stones. Mrs. Bennett, the settlement worker, hadinformed him that throwing stones was despicable, which went in one earand out the other, because Tom did not know what "despicable" meant.The priest had told him that it was both wicked and cowardly; while thepolice had gone straight to the heart of the matter by threatening tolock 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 hismind. On this day of Tom's wild exploits, as he moved along a littlefurther down the street he came to the fence which enclosed JohnTemple's vacant lot. It was covered with gaudy posters and with hisremaining piece of coal he proceeded to embellish these.

  He was so absorbed in his decorative enterprise that he did not noticethe person who was standing quietly on the sidewalk watching him, untilhe 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 ayoung gentleman, perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old,looking pleasantly at him. He was extremely well-dressed in a nattyblue serge suit, and to Tom his appearance was little less thangorgeous.

  The boy's first impulse was, of course, to run, and he made a start asif 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 threefeet from you."

  Tom was a little nonplussed. "I wouldn't t'row no stone standin' nearyer," 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 havepicked 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 trolleyconductors had told him that. He knew that he was lazy and shiftlessand unkempt and a number of other things, for the world at large hadmade no bones of telling him so; but never, never for one moment had hesupposed that he was no sport. He had always believed that to hit aperson with a stone and "get away with it" represented the very top-notchof fun, and sporting proficiency.

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

  "Give me that piece of coal, my boy, and let's see if we can't mark outthat last word."

  "Yer'll git yer hand all dirty wid coal," said Tom, hardly knowing whatelse to say.

  "Well, a dirty hand isn't as bad as a filthy word; besides, I'm rootingin the dirt with my hands all summer, anyway," said the young man, ashe marked out Tom's handiwork. "There," he added, handing back thecoal, "that's not so bad now; guess neither one of us is much of anartist, 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 youknow a cop will be here."

  Tom hardly knew what to think of this strange, sumptuously-attiredcreature whose hands were rooting in the dirt all summer, and who got ascratch (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 notwithout a tinge of suspicion that he accompanied him along the street,casting furtive glances at his luxurious attire, wondering how such ashe 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 moretrees 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 theymust have seemed to a passer-by, the boy hitching up his suspender
asoften as it slid from his shoulder in his shuffling effort to keep upwith the alert stride of his companion.

  "Trouble with stone-throwing is that there isn't any skill in it. Youknow what Buck Edwards said, don't you? He said he'd have learned topitch much easier if it hadn't been for throwing stones when he was akid. He used to be a regular fiend at it, and when he came to passingcurves he couldn't make his first finger behave. You think Buck canbeat 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 inten 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 youngman laughed. "Well, a kid can't aim steady if he smokes: that's onesure thing."

  Tom was seized with a strange desire to strengthen his companion's sideof the case. The poor boy had few enough arguments, goodness knows, indefense of his own habits, and his information was meagre enough. Yetthe one little thing which he seemed to remember about the other sideof 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, thoughthere may be. I landed a guy one in the temple with a stick lastsummer--accident, of course, and I thought it would kill him, but itdidn'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 canmark 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 stealan apple from Schmitt's Grocery, but instead he accompanied his newfriend until that mysterious person turned to enter a house.

  "Guess we didn't swap names, did we?" the stranger said, holding outhis hand.

  It was the first time that Tom Slade had grasped anyone's hand in manya day.

  "Tom--Tom Slade," he said, hitching up his suspender.

  "So? Mine's Ellsworth. Come up to the Library building and see us someFriday 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 ofthose 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 hada strange fascination for the boy, and it was not till the door closedbehind him that Tom's steady gaze was averted. Then he shuffled offdown the street.

  CHAPTER II

  "HATS OFF"