“You didn’ leave me sleep,” said Tom. “Yer only woke up yerself half an hour ago.”
“Yer call me a liar, will ye?” roared Bill Slade, rising.
Tom took his usual strategic position on the opposite side of the table, and as his father moved ominously around it, kept the full width of it between them. When he reached a point nearest the sink he grabbed a dented pail therefrom and darted out and down the stairs.
Up near Grantley Square was a fence which bore the sign, “Post No Bills.” How this had managed to escape Tom hitherto was a mystery, but he now altered it, according to the classic hoodlum formula, so that it read, “Post No Bills,” and headed up through the square for Barney Galloway’s saloon. Bill Slade had been reduced to long-distance intercourse in the matter of saloons for he had exhausted his credit in all the places near Barrel Alley.
In the spacious garden of John Temple’s home a girl of twelve or thirteen years was bouncing a ball. This was Mary Temple, and what business “old” John Temple had with such a pretty and graceful little daughter, I am not qualified to explain.
“Chuck it out here,” said Tom, “an’ I’ll ketch it in the can.”
She retreated a few yards into the garden, then turned, and gave Tom a withering stare.
“Chuck it out here and I’ll chuck it back—honest,” called Tom.
The girl’s dignity began to show signs of collapse. She wanted to have that ball thrown, and to catch it.
“Will you promise to toss it back?” she weakened.