“Come on, them ’ats comin’,” shouted another voice and Sammy Addington sprang forward, scrambling down the steep embankment toward the almost certain field of battle.
His fellow club members, even to Alex Conyers, fell into his wake. When a wire fence was reached there was a pause. In the short interval Hank Milleson joined the party.
“Say, kiddos,” he began anew, apparently in good humor, “how about comps to the show? If they’s any free passes I’d like to give the gang an invite.”
“You saw the bill,” exclaimed Conyers, glad of any chance to placate the enemy. “It says admission free.”
“Free to decent kids, not to bums and loafers,” broke in Art angrily. “You can’t put that over on us, Flatfoot,” he shouted.
“Say, Artie,” replied Hank slowly. “I guess I’m a loafer, but I ain’t a bum. Ain’t you gettin’ purty fresh?”
“What you goin’ to do about it?”
“Me? Oh, nothin’—now. But don’t call me no bum. Tain’t nothin’ to call a kid a ‘sis’ or a ‘milksop.’ But it kind o’ means sumpin’ bad to call him a bum. A bum’s a feller ’at hangs ’round saloons—or a hobo. I ain’t that—yet.”
This speech created a sensation among the still panting boys. Even their impulsive leader flushed. At any other time Art’s sense of fairness would have made him sorry for his words. Now, afraid of showing weakness, he made matters worse.
“That kind of stuff ain’t a goin’ to get our goat, Flatfoot,” he retorted. “Come on, boys!”