Jack Hall

It was a bright February morning. The sun was warm, so that the piles of snow in the streets were in a perfect condition for snow-balling, much to the satisfaction of a medium-sized boy of thirteen who had just come out of the house and was standing on his doorsteps, drawing on his mittens. His name was Jack Hall, and he wore a Scotch cap, a reefer, and a pair of rubber boots.

As soon as his mittens were on he cleared the last two steps with a jump, and, plunging his hands into the nearest snow-bank, stood patting a ball into shape while he looked around. The street on which Jack’s house stood was a long and tolerably steep slope. There were houses on both sides. He lived at the top, near the corner of an intersecting street, which ran at right angles to it down to Boston Common. Opposite to his house was a grocery shop.

Suddenly Jack looked animated as he caught sight of another figure, not unlike his own, on the way up the hill, and by way of welcome to the new-comer, who was still far off, he emitted a sort of shrill war-whoop, “Ehu—ehu—ehu!”

Immediately there came a faint reply from the distance, “Ehu—ehu—ehu!”

After each had twice repeated this salutation, Jack continued contentedly to make snow-balls. He had finished two, tucking one under either arm, and was moulding a third, when a man appeared on the further sidewalk of the intersecting street.

“Give me a shot, mister?” shouted Jack.

The man, who was going towards the Common, looked back over his shoulder and grinned, which Jack recognized as a sign that he might blaze away, which he did accordingly. The first snow-ball went a little wide of the mark, and struck the wall beyond with a thud; but the next hit the man plump in the middle of his exposed arm, and evidently convinced him that discretion was the better part of valor, for he gathered his coat collar about his neck, and fled with precipitation until the corner shut him out from view, pursued by Jack’s remaining snow-ball and derisive scoffing.

This put Jack in high humor. But before he had fully re-supplied himself with ammunition, the area door in the wing of the grocery shop opened, and the grocer’s clerk, a young man of about eighteen, appeared, carrying some baskets and bundles, with which he proceeded to load a wheelbarrow belonging to the establishment, that stood beside the big window, paying no attention to Jack, though he perceived him very well. For there was perpetual war between the boys in the neighborhood and “Mustachio,” which was the name applied by them to the grocer’s assistant on account of a feebly sprouting down on his upper lip.

Jack had equipped himself amply with snow-balls by the time that the clerk, with his barrow-full of eggs and flour and other groceries to be delivered in the neighborhood, was ready to start down the street, and stood leaning against a tree watching the enemy. Before Mustachio had proceeded twenty feet, Jack let drive, not at him, but at the area door, having made sure by a glance that the grocer himself was not looking out at the big window. Now the area door contained a pocket about a foot square, cut in the panel and concealed by a swinging cover, which opened inwards, and shut as soon as pressure was removed. Through this the baker dropped his rolls in the morning into a basket in the cellar of the store, and one of the never-tiring amusements of the boys was to try to do the same with snow-balls. From across the street this required some dexterity. As a consequence, the grocer had cause to complain bitterly, both of the influx of snow into his bread basket, and the dents in the woodwork of the door, which was apt to need a new coat of paint as soon as the spring came.

On this occasion Jack’s first shot hit the woodwork with a plashing sound, for the ball was slushy. The noise affected the grocer’s clerk as a red rag affects a bull. He stopped and, setting down his barrow, turned towards Jack just as that young miscreant’s second ball hit the target and disappeared. The clerk muttered something under his breath and made a dash as though to run across the street. Jack, divining that this was a feint, retired alertly as far as the corner, where he stood ready to beat a more hasty and prolonged retreat if necessary. But the clerk, thinking better of his first impulse, took up the handles of his barrow and started off again, trundling smartly.

This was Jack’s opportunity. He regained his former post and, aiming with precision, sent a ball whizzing within an inch of the clerk’s head, accompanying the shot with a vituperative cry loud enough to arouse the neighborhood.

“Mustachio-o-o! Mustachio-o-o!”

Dignity was the rôle which the victim assumed this time, for he paid no heed to either insult. Yet he was doomed to be discomfited. The second shot hit his barrow without doing any damage, but the next struck a paper bag containing eggs and broke two, a misadventure which would require the poor fellow to make another trip by-and-by. He turned and glared at Jack, realizing his helplessness and yet reluctant to be unavenged.

So absorbed was he in righteous indignation that he had failed to observe another small figure creeping up on the opposite sidewalk in the shadow of the houses and obscured by the trunks and branches of the row of trees which grew along the street. Mustachio stooped to gather some snow which he was compressing with relentless vim into ice with his bare hands preparatory to hurling it at Jack with all his might, when of a sudden a ball from a new quarter and at short range struck him with stinging force in the side of the head, plastering his ear like a poultice. For an instant he was dazed by the shock which gave time—but only just time—for the reinforcement over the way to shoot past him and dive into the alley way of Jack’s house a few yards above. Mustachio plunging into the snow had crossed the street and was at his new antagonist’s heels in the twinkling of an eye, but too late. The heavy back door was slammed in his face and double-bolted, and simultaneously from behind it and from the street corner where Jack had again sought shelter arose another triumphant cry, “Mustachio-oh-o-ho! Mustachio-o!”

A few minutes later, a peculiar undulating whistle given vent to by Jack assured the prisoner that danger was passed, who, accordingly, reappeared on the scene. The unhappy grocer’s lad, having come to the conclusion that retribution at the moment was out of the question, was visible down the street trundling his wheelbarrow, but out of range of the parting snow-balls which the boys sent after him.

“That was a beauty, Dubsy,” said Jack, by way of compliment to the shot which had struck Mustachio’s ear.

At that moment a booby-hut swung round the corner. As it went by each of the boys sprang lightly on to one of the hind runners unseen by the driver. Away they swept down hill, passing their late enemy, at whom they grinned exultingly, and delighting in the jounces which the sleigh made at the uneven places. It turned into the next street, and soon they were spinning over the smooth, well-trodden snow of the milldam, amid a host of sleighs and a gay jingling of bells. Presently the driver pulled up the horses and they stopped before a house where a lady got out. But they were in luck for the time being; there was another lady to be left further on; then the booby turned and carried them back again, which was what they had hoped for. They held on firmly, still as mice, and well sheltered by the back of the sleigh.

All of a sudden, just as they had reached the foot of their own street, a voice abreast of them cried loudly, “Cut—cut behind!”

Simultaneously, a snow-ball aimed at them skimmed along the top of the booby and hit the driver. But the driver needed no additional stimulus; the cry was enough. Before the snow-ball struck him he had reached for the whip. Swish! swish! went the lash, curling round the back of the sleigh. But the boys were quicker than he; at the first note of danger they had let go their hold.

Instantly they darted after the urchin who had betrayed them, a ragged shaver, who had taken to his heels the moment after discharging the snow-ball, and was now running like greased lightning. Their rubber boots impeded them, and though they panted after the fugitive through a number of streets they paused at last, pretty well winded, and had to content themselves with firing a few harmless shots at him. He returned the fire from the brow of the hill where he stood, and one of his balls, which were very swift, hit Jack’s Scotch cap, although Jack dodged, and nearly knocked it off; whereupon the enemy set up a jeer, and exclaimed before vanishing over the hill,—

“I’ll bring a crowd down this afternoon and knock the stuffing out of yer!”

Jack and Dubsy, looking rather sheepish, turned towards home. Their pride had received a downfall. Moreover they were heated and rather tired. The vicinity of Ma’am Horn’s struck them, accordingly, as providential, for it seemed as though “pickle-limes” were the only things in creation which could relieve their outraged feelings. They began by flattening their noses against the window-pane of the little shop. A goodly array of small wares delighted their vision,—peg-tops, of all sizes; marbles of every sort, from the common clay variety known as the “twoser” and blood alleys up to wonderful mottled agates; knives, jack-stones, jew’s-harps, and valentines. There were caramels, pop corn balls, cream cakes, and cocoanut cakes, and, most tempting of the whole in the way of sweets, was a tin tray of black looking sticks of molasses candy, each about the length of a short cigar, but rather thicker. On the counter, under the eye of Ma’am Horn, who did also a thriving business in tapes, needles, and haberdashery, stood a dish not unlike the bowls used for holding gold fish, half full of dark greenish yellow spheres: these were “pickle-limes.”

Jack had seven cents in his hand, in copper coin, as he entered.

“Give me two pickle-limes, please, Ma’am Horn,” he said. Ma’am Horn, a thin and rather severe looking lady, fished out the dainties called for, one of which Jack handed to Dubsy, who had been gazing at them despairingly, having no money of his own, and who exclaimed with effusion, “Oh, thank you, Jack.” Together they popped them into their mouths, and as they munched interchanged glances of rapturous congratulation.

Jack had five cents left; what should he buy? His eye lingered fondly on almost every article in the store. He was sorely tempted by a jew’s-harp, a compressible snake, and by some fascinating striped marbles known as “Chinees.” But his appetite was far from satisfied. Then, too, there was Dubsy, and Dubsy was out of cash; though, of course, if he bought marbles Dubsy would not expect him to share them with him.

“How much is a cream cake?” he asked.

“Five cents.”

Jack sighed. He knew well the price of those luscious articles, but the desire to have one made him perhaps imagine that it might have gone down.

“Give me two cocoanut cakes.”

Cocoanut cakes were a cent apiece. Jack put one into his mouth and munched it thoughtfully; then with a sigh he held the second out to Dubsy and exclaimed monosyllabically, “Here!”

“You’re a brick, Jack!”

Jack licked his fingers. “I took the brownest one,” he said, apologetically.

There were still three cents remaining. With two of them Jack bought some “Chinees,” but the expenditure of the last cent perplexed him. He finally selected one of the sticks of black molasses candy; these when fresh were so adhesive that it was common to transplant them directly from the tray to the purchaser’s mouth, for if put in paper the paper was sure to cling to them. Jack’s eyes closed with satisfaction as his teeth shut down on one end of the delicious morsel. When he looked again, he perceived Dubsy gazing at him with a manly resolve to exhibit no envy, and yet with disappointment, or let us rather say resignation, written on his face.

Jack could not speak, but he grunted and held out his mouth; Dubsy understood the signal. A moment later his teeth had hold of the other end of the stick of candy. Now began a struggle. The two boys, chewing vigorously and soon convulsed with laughter, tried to draw away from one another, but the tough and ropy compound balked them. In a moment or two, however, it began to yield, and presently the point of ambition with Jack and Dubsy was to draw out as long as possible the strand of stringy molasses which bound them together. At last, after they were separated from one another by the width of the shop, the strand became a thread. When this broke the fun was over. But, needless to say, the mouths of the participants were a sight to behold.

The corner from which they had originally started was the regular meeting-place for the boys who lived within the radius of half a mile from Jack’s house. Thither they now returned only to learn that the other fellows had gone coasting on the Common. Accordingly, they went into Jack’s back yard by way of the long alley already referred to, and soon reappeared devouring an apple apiece obtained from the cook, and dragging a double runner called “Never Say Die,” made out of Jack’s single sleds, “Star of the East,” and “Reindeer,” with which they proceeded to the long coast, so called, which ran from a point opposite the State House diagonally across the Common to the West Street gate. The coast was in fine condition and crowded with sleds of every description, from the most diminutive type to huge double runners capable of holding eight or ten big boys. Some of these last named, elaborate with carpet laid over the main board and a bell which sounded at intervals to warn people to get out of the way, seemed to Jack and Dubsy the most desirable things in the world, and made their own double runner appear very insignificant by comparison.

However, theirs went tolerably fast, quite fast enough to be safe for such small boys as they. Jack went down in front “belly flounders,” or “belly bumps,”—the phrase used to denote lying flat on one’s stomach; little Bill French, whom they had picked up on the way, came next in the same posture, grasping Jack firmly by the legs just above the tops of his rubber boots, and on the end squatted Dubsy, “butcher” fashion, with one foot hanging out behind for extra steering purposes. The coast was like glass. They positively flew; and it was no easy work to guide their course so as to avoid running down the small sleds ahead of them, to say nothing of getting safely over an ugly rut half way from the top, which jounced and was apt to upset the unskillful. At the bottom of the hill, where a crowd of spectators was collected, another jounce was caused by a plank walk which crossed the coast. This passed without mishap, the sleds sped along the smooth mall so long as their velocity could hold out. Thanks to Jack’s cleverness in handling, the “Never Say Die” made an excellent showing the first time down, being landed by dint of strenuous coaxing and nursing three inches ahead of a considerably larger competitor, to the great satisfaction of our trio. Then came the climb up hill with the prospect of another glorious descent to deter them from lagging.

It was great sport, and a boon to the hundreds of boys of every size and class who could thus spend their holiday out of harm’s way in healthful exercise.

Jack and his friends went down half a dozen times without a mishap, and even beat their first record, running to a point on the path which none but the very largest double-runners had succeeded in reaching. But on the seventh trip they came to grief, though the fault was scarcely theirs. Jack was in front as usual, and with both his hands clasped over one of the iron-shod points of “Reindeer,” was urging the “Never Say Die” on for all she was worth in point of speed, when, of a sudden, a lady started to cross the coast about half way down. You boys who know the Common do not need to be told that there is a more or less traveled path which intersects the long coast at this point.

The lady had been waiting on the edge of the coast for several minutes for a chance to cross. She was very nervous and at the same time in a hurry to catch a horse-car. There were a number of other people standing in line as spectators and what with so many sleds on the way down, and the stream of boys coming up hill dragging sleds behind them, she doubtless got confused, lost her head, and started just at the wrong time. It was too late to help her before the bystanders realized her danger. Jack was seized with horror as she loomed up on the track just ahead of him. The “Never Say Die” was going like a locomotive.

“Clear the lulla! Clear the lulla-a-a!” Jack shouted, as loud as he was able.

He made one frantic effort to wrench “Reindeer” aside, but to no purpose. The lady turned her head at his cry, and just then the points of the foremost sled struck her amidships, as sailors would say, and she fell with a despairing shriek on to Jack’s head and shoulders, her legs flying from under her. Her clothing blinded Jack’s eyes so that he could perceive nothing ahead. At the same moment, the hinder part of the “Never Say Die,” as a consequence of the check in front, slued violently and swung nearly at right angles across the coast, a certain target for those coming after. Bump! Crash! Another double runner and a single sled struck them simultaneously, and the wreck of all three, mingled together and twisted awry by the ugly rut which by this time they had fallen into, flew asunder. Somehow or other Jack got free from the lady in time to dodge his head just as “Reindeer,” torn apart from her mate, smashed into a tree and upset. The unhappy cause of the catastrophe was tossed a few feet behind him into the gutter. “Star of the East” darted off to the other side of the coast, but, handicapped by the remains of the board which ordinarily united her with “Reindeer,” capsized immediately and rolled over and over with poor Dubsy. Little Bill French, being light and small, was lifted like a shuttlecock off the “Never Say Die” by the prow of the “Iceland Queen,” but only to be thrown a moment later into the middle of the coast by the violent slueing of that semblance of royalty, from which dangerous predicament he managed to crawl away unharmed. “Iceland Queen” wobbled about for a few minutes longer, but upset at last into the gutter; while the boy with the single sled, violently thrown out of his path, shot between the trees over the crust of the adjacent field, where he succeeded in coming to a halt without further mishap. Altogether it was a dire experience.

Fortunately the lady was merely shaken up a little though a good deal frightened. The injuries to the three boys were also slight, consisting of a scratch on Dubsy’s cheek, a lame shoulder received by Jack from contact with the tree, and a general wetting and begriming of them all. Jack’s chief concern, after being satisfied that neither the lady nor either of his companions was dead, was for the “Never Say Die,” which, to tell the truth, was pretty far gone; for not only was her main board splintered, but one of the runners of “Star of the East” was nearly twisted off. Nothing was left, therefore, but to convey what was left home, which was done by the boys ruefully, inasmuch as such an occupation on Washington’s Birthday seemed the essence of misuse of time.

Jack, in common with the other boys of the city, was rejoicing in the consciousness that there would be no school until Monday, this being only Friday morning. Washington’s Birthday was to be followed by some civic celebration on the morrow, thus affording them two days of vacation in succession, with Sunday to boot. But though there was so much time at his disposal, every minute of it was precious to Jack. Accordingly, as soon as the “Never Say Die” was reëstablished in the back yard preliminary to sending her to a carpenter for repairs, the question arose, what to do during the hour and a half left before dinner.

To begin with, the three boys sauntered into the grocery on the corner and were weighed, a process which they were apt to inflict upon its long-suffering proprietor whenever there was nothing else in particular to do. For after getting off the scales it was rather pleasant to wander about the store peering into the barrels, stroking the cat, and perhaps, when there was a chance, “hooking” a dried apple or a handful of beans. On this occasion, Bill French stood treat to figs, which he charged to his father with an audacity that seemed admirable to Jack. Bill, though the smallest of the three, was their equal in age, and more than their equal in sly ways; for whereas Jack was full of animal spirits and very mischievous, and Dubsy (as the boys called him, for no reason that was ever discovered, his real name being Samuel) Perkins was not a model of obedience, they were both straightforward boys. But they looked up to Bill as knowing a thing or two, and accordingly listened with avidity when, after they had pretty well exhausted the resources of the shop, he suddenly exclaimed in a confidential whisper, “I know what let’s do, fellows.”

“What?” they asked together.

Without disclosing his purpose, Bill led the way out of the store, up the intersecting street, into one parallel with that on which Jack lived, and up the back stairs of his house into the garret, stopping on the way at his own room for a minute, from which he reappeared with some pieces of stick and a box of matches which he exhibited with a wink to his companions.

“What are they for?” Jack asked.

“I know,” said Dubsy, after an instant.

“Mum’s the word,” answered Bill, putting his finger on his lips. Thereupon he mounted a short ladder leading to the skylight, pushed open the skylight, through which he crawled on to the flat, graveled roof, followed immediately by the others. This was a lark in itself. To be able to look over the tops of the houses and to discern the harbor and the forts and the shipping, or to see the horses and people in the streets below looking pigmy-like, was a genuine treat.

“Swanny!” cried Jack, with a burst of enthusiasm; “I can see Nahant!”

“And there’s Bunker Hill,” said Dubsy, who was looking in another direction. “The flags are flying everywhere. That’s because it’s Washington’s Birthday.”

Their attention was suddenly diverted by seeing Bill light a match under cover of the chimney wall and apply it to one of the pieces of stick which protruded from his mouth; then he drew in his breath, puffed, and blew out a little smoke.

“She’s going,” he said, gleefully. “Have a weed?” He pointed to the other sticks which lay near by.

Jack looked a little awestruck. “What is it?” he asked, “sweet-fern?” He had, sometimes, while skating on the ponds, seen older boys when it was dusk flying about with lighted cigarettes in their mouths, which he had been told were made of sweet-fern.

“No,” said Bill. “Rattan, greeny.”

Jack hated of all things to be considered green. “Oh,” he said, doubtfully.

Dubsy had already taken one of the sticks and was lighting it.

“It’s bully,” said Bill. “Charley Buck has smoked real cigarettes and says they’re no better. Don’t be stumped by Dubsy, Jack! How is it, Dubsy?”

“First rate,” said Dubsy. “But mine doesn’t draw very well, Bill.”

“I’ll fix it all right,” answered the master of ceremonies. Whereupon he took his knife and worked it a few times in the unlighted end of Dubsy’s cigarette. “There! try that.”

The operation acted like a charm; Dubsy was enabled to emit a cloud of smoke which filled Jack’s doubting soul with envy. To be stumped by Dubsy was more than he could bear, though he felt very sure that his mother would disapprove of his smoking.

“It’s better’n hay-seed,” said Dubsy, who had seated himself on a ridge of the roof beside Bill, and was swinging his foot jubilantly.

“I never smoked hay-seed,” replied poor Jack. “Which end do you light?” he asked defiantly, taking up one of the pieces of rattan.

“It makes no difference,” said Bill. “Bully for you, Jack.”

A moment later they were all three seated side by side, puffing like little Turks.

“Yesterday was my birthday,” continued Bill. “See what father gave me.” He drew out of his pocket an open-faced silver watch, which he exhibited with pride.

“My eye!” exclaimed Jack. “Does it really go?”

“Go? I guess she does. You ought to hear her tick at night. Father says I shall have a hunter when I’m fifteen, and a gold repeater when I’m twenty-one.”

The other boys were silent with envy.

“My father’s got lots of money,” went on Bill. “He could buy both your fathers out, I guess, and have a pile left.”

“My father’s dead, you know,” answered Jack.

“So he is; I wasn’t thinking. Well, then, he could buy your mother out.”

“Let’s see the works,” said Dubsy.

Bill opened the inside cover with his thumb nail in response to this request, and the three heads were immediately in close proximity studying the internal arrangements of the watch.

“That’s a jewel,” said Bill, indicating a colored spot among the cogs and wheels.

The heads went lower in mute admiration.

“It isn’t a very big one, anyway,” said Jack, glad of what seemed an opportunity for criticism.

“There are fourteen, mostly rubies,” replied Bill. “Don’t breathe so hard, Dubsy. Father says it hurts the works to breathe on them.”

“Wind her up,” cried Jack.

Bill fumbled in his pocket and produced a key. “She’s mostly wound,” he said. “I wound her last night and again just after breakfast.” One or two turns was all the watch would stand at the moment without danger to the mainspring; so this exhibition was unsatisfactory.

“My father has a stem-winder,” said Dubsy, after a moment; “I’ve heard him say that a watch with a key was more bother than it was worth.”

“I shouldn’t care for one that wasn’t a stem-winder,” said Jack, stoutly.

“Sour grapes,” said Bill, with a sneer.

“You feel awful big, don’t you, because you’ve got a watch,” retorted Jack.

“Oh, come off,” said Bill, contemptuously. This was a phrase unfamiliar to the others, which Bill had picked up in the streets. The interest awakened by its use induced a pause, during which Jack cooled down. He did not wish a row, and was conscious of having been unwarrantably aggressive. But, as he would have said, he was sick of hearing Bill blow.

Bill, having by this time exhausted the delights of his cigarette, had taken his knife and split the rattan open down the middle. “That’s dried blood,” he said, holding out the pieces for inspection.

The boys looked, and there, sure enough, running down through the pith was a fine red thread, which resembled very much what Bill said it was.

“Every time one smokes, blood is sucked out of the lungs and collects like that,” he said.

“How do you know it’s blood?” asked Jack in rather an awestruck voice.

“Charley Buck says so.” This was strong evidence. Charley Buck was nearly fifteen.

“I was awfully sick the first time I smoked,” went on Bill, but his words were not regarded by Jack, who was deep in the process of dividing his own piece of rattan. There the red thread was, just as in Bill’s piece. His lungs seemed all right, but his head was a little dizzy; he coughed once or twice and patted his chest without uncomfortable results; however, he felt grave. What would his mother say if she knew the truth! He put the pieces of rattan carefully in his pocket, and recollected that it was dinner time.

Just then Bill exclaimed in a tone in which pity and satisfaction were blended in about equal proportions, “I guess you’re sick, Dubsy.”

Dubsy was; the poor fellow looked very white and doleful, and was sitting still. “I feel faint, that’s all,” he answered.

But it wasn’t all; moreover, it was a good quarter of an hour before Dubsy was able to lift his head from the roof and be helped down the ladder. Meanwhile, Jack and Bill sat on either side of him and tried to cheer him up. Bill, who was able to speak from experience, assured them that the sickness would soon subside, and that he had been much more miserable after his first smoke. But to tell the truth, Jack and Bill also, despite his former experiences, felt rather squeamish themselves and not much inclined to talk. Besides, the remembrance of what he supposed to be his dried blood haunted Jack’s mind. Altogether, it was, on the whole, a bad quarter of an hour, as the French say.