“Dry up!”
Joshua had snatched the envelope from Slinky’s hand, and as he read aloud the superscription on the back his sarcastic tones were an attempt to imitate Madmallet’s:
“‘Mrs. John H. Cole, Three fifty-five Grant Avenue. Kindness of Albert Dawson.’
“Well, you ain’t gonta be so kind, after all, Mr. Albert Dawson,” jeered the leader of the outlaws. “And now lissen to me, kid: If you don’t go back this afternoon an’ tell Ole Sorehatchet that you give this note to our mother, me’n’ Les’ll lay fer you an’ knock the stuffin’ outa you. Don’t you ferget it, kid! Now go on home an’ keep yer face closed.”
“But—”
“Gwan, I’m tellin’ ye!”
And Slinky Dawson, glad that the ordeal was over but with a sinking heart for the consequences of his remissness, faded away.
Joshua read the contents of the envelope, a brief statement of what had occurred, then tore the paper to shreds.
“Now, c’m’on, kid,” said he. “Le’s get down to the Crescent an’ see what’s doin’.”
Most boys who possess such a studious turn of mind as did Joshua are of the Slinky Dawson type. Slinky was inefficient in everything except his studies. He could not play ball; any boy in school could outrun him; any boy could whip him. Joshua, on the other hand, was one of the foremost athletes in Hathaway’s Boyland. But, then, it was not dreamed that Joshua was a student. Had he not failed repeatedly in arithmetic and grammar? Then how could he be a studious boy? That he was the best pitcher on the Third-room Nine was an established fact. That he could run and jump and wrestle went undisputed. And that no one in the city—man, woman, girl or boy—could equal him on roller-skates was supposed to be the height of his accomplishments.