"I—I couldn't say it!" he mourned. "I wanted t', but it jus' wouldn't come out! I s'pose it's 'cause I ain't a reg'lar scout yet." Going down the stairs, he saw no one, though several of the curious (having learned about the big box that had gone up) saw him. But, strangely enough, they watched him in silence, their speech stayed by the misery in his lowered face and bent shoulders. "After a while I'll be better, maybe," he told himself hopefully. "But now 'bout all I can do, seems like, is keep my teeth clean."
CHAPTER XXIV
FATHER PAT
AN energetic, hot, and dust-laden wind caught at Johnnie as he came out upon the street, whipping strands of his yellow hair into his eyes and about his ears, blowing the fringe at his knees and elbows, billowing the big shirt till his ribs were fanned, and setting to wave gayly all those pink rosebuds and their green leaves.
The wind did more: warm as it was, it calmed his thoughts and steadied his brain, so that he was able to see the whole matter of the birthday bouquet clearly, and reach a new and better decision in regard to the flowers. Now he understood perfectly that in spite of whatever might happen to him when he got home, he could not sell Mr. Perkins's gift. No boy who intended to be a scout could do such a things—then return, even with the large sum of one whole dollar, and expect Cis to speak to him again. And how could he ever bear to admit such a sale to Mr. Perkins? or to One-Eye?
"I'd rather fall down and die!" he vowed. "'Cause it'd show 'em all that I ain't gittin' made over a bit!"
But if he did not dispose of the flowers to some one, as the longshoreman had ordered, what then? Should he turn around and go straight back to the flat—now? He halted for a moment, thinking. To go back would, of course, mean a beating, perhaps with the buckle end of the strap! (A thought that made him shiver as he stood there, on a hot pave, in the summer sun.) Oh, was there not some way by which he could keep the bouquet and yet not suffer punishment? Suppose he gave the roses away? to the first old lady he met? and then reported to Big Tom—with tears!—that a gang of boys had snatched the flowers out of his hands? But that would be telling a lie, and a lie would be as bad, almost, as taking money for Cis's blossoms. No, he would not lie, though not so long ago, before he met the scoutmaster, and read the Handbook, he would not have hesitated; indeed, he would have rejoiced in cheating Barber, and complimented himself on thinking up such a clever story.
Suppose, however, that he were to sell the flowers for a dollar, keep the money, and not return to the flat at all? For a moment this plan seemed such a good one that he started off briskly, his look searching the faces of passersby. Another moment, and he came short again. How could he cut himself off from Mr. Perkins? For if he did, his hope of being a scout, when he was twelve years old, would be gone. Also, there was that wedding; he had set his heart on attending it, and walking the red carpet between lines of envious onlookers. No, this was no time to be leaving the flat.
Then, a splendid idea! And he made up his mind instantly that he would carry it out, so on he started, though more slowly than before. His new plan was this: He would walk, and walk, and walk, enjoying the buds all the while, their delicate fragrance, the silken touch of their petals against his chin. As he walked, he would not look at any one—just at the scenery; so that when he returned home he could truthfully say that he had seen no one even so much as look at the roses. No matter what any stranger might say to him, he would not stop, and then he could declare that nobody had stopped him. Also, should a lady or gentleman hail him, asking to buy, he would not answer, and so he would be able to say that he had not refused to sell.
