“Nartin.”
“You weren’t going to throw it at me, I hope, while I am standing three feet from you.”
Tom was a little nonplussed. “I wouldn’t t’row no stone standin’ near yer,” 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 have picked 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 trolley conductors had told him that. He knew that he was lazy and shiftless and unkempt and a number of other things, for the world at large had made no bones of telling him so; but never, never for one moment had he supposed that he was no sport. He had always believed that to hit a person with a stone and “get away with it” represented the very top-notch of fun, and sporting proficiency.
So he looked at this young man as if he thought that he had inadvertently turned the world upside down.
“Give me that piece of coal, my boy, and let’s see if we can’t mark out that last word.”
“Yer’ll git yer hand all dirty wid coal,” said Tom, hardly knowing what else to say.
“Well, a dirty hand isn’t as bad as a filthy word; besides, I’m rooting in the dirt with my hands all summer, anyway,” said the young man, as he marked out Tom’s handiwork. “There,” he added, handing back the coal, “that’s not so bad now; guess neither one of us is much of an artist, 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 you know a cop will be here.”
Tom hardly knew what to think of this strange, sumptuously-attired creature whose hands were rooting in the dirt all summer, and who got a scratch (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.”