Jack Hall

As soon as Dubsy Perkins felt all right again, Jack and he left Bill French’s and went home to their dinners. Jack lived alone with his mother; he was her only child. Her husband had been killed in the Civil War ten years before, and Jack was all she had in the world to care for and be proud of except the memory of Jack’s father’s gallant services as a soldier, which she was never tired of talking about to Jack. His name had been John Hall, just as Jack’s was, and he had fallen at the head of the regiment of which he was Colonel, in one of the last battles of the war, when Jack was a mere baby.

Back of Colonel John Hall was a long line of Halls, running very nearly into Mayflower times, a good many of them John Halls or, as those who knew them best called them, Jack Halls, though John is a good name for any boy or man to be content with and not to wish to change. They were a hardy, thorough-going set, these Halls, Massachusetts folk who in Colonial times, when the days were gone by for shooting Indians, tilled their farms and made sure that their liberties were not interfered with by King James or King William or King George. When this was impossible without taking arms, they were equal to the occasion. Israel Hall, Jack’s great-great-grandfather, was one of the raw recruits composing the Continental Army over which General Washington assumed command under the famous old elm at Cambridge. He followed his commander through thick and thin, became a sergeant, then a captain, was wounded, but got well in time to be one of those who made the memorable passage of the Delaware when our army, reduced to a forlorn band of four thousand, fell upon the Hessians at Trenton, routed them, and plucked up spirit and hope once more. He was shot dead, however, at the battle of Brandywine, and, as will be the case with many brave fellows so long as wars last, left a wife and some wee bits of children to get along as best they could.

It would take too long to give an account of the lives of Jack’s ancestors in detail, but you may be interested to learn something of the career of Israel Hall’s eldest son,—also named John,—who, having to make his own way in the world, left the family farm and came to Salem town in search of something to do. Now, at that time Salem was a famous commercial port, little as one would imagine it to-day. Forty years later its prestige was usurped and overshadowed by its near neighbor, Boston, but from 1770 until 1820 the maritime supremacy of Salem was unquestioned. Prior to the Revolution, the inhabitants of the town had been noted for their commercial energy, and when war was declared they fitted out their trading vessels with guns, and built others to the number of over one hundred, which made great havoc among the enemy’s commerce in the English Channel and the Bay of Biscay, so that the rates of insurance went up amazingly among the British underwriters. The patriotism and enterprise of the old Salem merchants is a glowing chapter in the history of our country.

But as soon as there was no more fighting to be done, the merchants turned their fleet of privateers into trading-vessels again, and as the vessels were too large for mere coasters, sent them out laden with Spanish dollars to every nook and corner of the Oriental world,—to Calcutta and Madagascar, and Batavia and Java, and the Celebes, and all the chain of islands in the Indian Archipelago which you have read about in your geographies. There the silver freight was exchanged for pepper, spices, gums, coffee, or other Eastern products, with which the captains would either return or would bear away to some European port, like Marseilles, where part of the cargo was sold at a profit, and its place supplied by wines and silk to be brought home. It was an adventurous, exciting life for those who sailed; and meanwhile the owners sat in their counting-houses casting up figures and waiting for their vessels to arrive. It was often two and even three years that they had to wait, but the ships came back at last, freighted with merchandise, which their owners sold to their fellow townspeople at a snug profit. Or, if by chance the ships were lost and never returned, the underwriters reimbursed the merchants so that they were able to buy new ones.

It was into the counting-house of one of these merchants that Jack’s great-grandfather, John Hall, chanced to stray one morning in search of employment. Probably the head of the firm liked the looks of the boy and divined that he would make a sterling sailor; at all events he took him into his service and sent him on a long voyage in one of his ships, which turned out very successfully for the merchant, and for John Hall too, inasmuch as everybody had a pleasant word to say in his behalf. From this time forward his life was one of marvelous experiences for many years to come. One thing leads to another when a young man is efficient. Before he was nineteen John Hall was a mate, and on his twenty-first birthday he found himself in command of a three hundred ton ship, which was a large one for those days. If it were his career I was narrating, it would be easy to keep you awake many hours with thrilling tales of what happened to him. He fought with pirates, and had hair-breadth adventures with savage tribes, was twice shipwrecked, and barely escaped being eaten by cannibals, only to be imprisoned in a South American dungeon instead. But in the end he passed safely through his perils, and settled down in Salem for the rest of his days with seventy-five thousand dollars in hard cash, which was quite as much as a million is now.

Very possibly some of you may be thinking that you would like to have lived when a career similar to that of Jack’s great-grandfather was a natural one for an ambitious boy to follow. But though the glamour of such adventures as his does make the blood even of those of us who are grown up tingle as we read, it will not do to shut our eyes to the truth. We see only the glory and forget the hardships. We forget, too,—and their many virtues make us forget,—that resolute, noble fellows as were the men whose enterprise and pluck built up fortunes for themselves while supplying their country, starved and draggled by the Revolution, with the necessities and even the luxuries of life, these old merchant captains and their crews were rough, ignorant people compared with what some of your fathers are to-day. They had but little knowledge except of a practical kind acquired by bitter experience; their one absorbing interest was the accumulation of money, and, let us say it under our breaths, the standards of morality by which they did business were not the highest. How could it be otherwise? The population of the strip of seaboard States which then composed our country had to begin existence as a nation bankrupt, and chiefly dependent for its wants on the products of other lands. Our great-grandfathers were down to hard pan, as the saying is, and life meant for them a struggle for the means of existence unrelieved by any but the most homely pleasures and tastes. There were no mills and factories then to compete with the manufactories of Europe, no great west with its fields of waving grain and developed mines of gold and coal and iron, no cotton gin, no splendid libraries and broad institutions of learning, no railroads, no telegraph. All these were yet to come, and it is to such men as John Hall that we are indebted for having laid the foundations of that prosperity which affords to their descendants opportunities for usefulness and culture such as our forefathers never dreamed of. Let us admire their courage, grit, and perseverance; let us applaud their successes and recognize the sterling virtues by which they won them, but their lot should no more arouse our envy than should that of those later pioneers in the struggle of reclaiming our west from the forest and the savage, inspired by whose adventures as scouts and trappers so many boys have run away from home and been very sorry afterwards.

We left Jack going home to his dinner, for which he did not feel very hungry at first. But a fine piece of beefsteak with potatoes and macaroni, followed by cold rice pudding with bits of cinnamon in it, of which Jack was especially fond, brought his appetite back again, so that when he had finished his second plate of pudding, cleaning the plate with his spoon until it shone, the thought occurred to him that he would have a third help; but the well-known “Ehu—ehu—ehu” resounding from the street told him that the fellows were beginning to collect again, and he started up.

Jack dined in the middle of the day, and his mother had her dinner at night; but Mrs. Hall made a point of taking her lunch at the same hour as Jack dined, and after he had finished eating she always tried to beguile him into sitting still for a while, for he had a tendency, when anything interesting was in prospect outdoors, to scurry through his meals and leave the table with his mouth full the instant the last course had been served. Sometimes he would bolt from his chair as soon as he had finished his meat, crying,—merely by way of explanation for his hasty departure,—as he seized his cap and just prior to slamming the front door, “Don’t want any pudding.” On such occasions his mother did not always have the heart to detain him.

But this day he dined alone and there was no one to put a check on his movements, for Mrs. Hall had been called away out of town to see an old friend who was sick, and would not be back until after Jack’s bed hour. Deeply as he loved his mother and fond as he was of having her with him, Jack felt a certain pride in being his own master for once. As an indemnity for being left alone for the day, he had obtained permission to order whatever he liked for tea, and to have whomever he chose among the boys to share it with him. He had already exercised the second privilege by inviting Dubsy Perkins, Bill French, and Harry Dale, another of his friends, and it was now necessary to decide upon the viands before he went out again. This was no easy task, as he had a number of dainties in mind which ranked very evenly in his estimation. He felt pretty certain as to one, however. “We’ll have cream cakes, Hannah,” he said with decision to the maid.

“Very well, Master Jack, I’ll get six; that’ll be one and a half apiece.”

“How much are éclairs?” he asked, presently.

“I don’t know, Master Jack. Your mamma, when she has company, buys those at the confectioner’s.”

“They’re bully,” he said. “I like the chocolate ones best. I guess, though, the fellows would rather have cream cakes.”

“Cook has a Washington pie ready.”

“That’s hunky! Mother said that we could have quince jam and raspberry jam, and—and—I know what we’ll have,” he cried with a wave of his arm,—“waffles.”

“I don’t know as the cook has a waffle-iron, Master Jack,” answered Hannah, despondently.

Jack looked downcast a moment. “We had them at Bill French’s, you eat them with butter and nutmeg,” he said, with a sigh.

“Cook makes those puff cakes very nicely,” said Hannah, who had been thinking.

Jack clapped his hands. “They’ll do first-rate,” he said. “I guess that’ll be enough, with the spread bread and butter and some muffins; don’t you, Hannah?”

“Goodness sakes! yes, Master Jack. If you’re not all sick to-morrow, I shall be very much mistaken.”

At the mention of sickness Jack was pensive a moment. Then he felt in his pocket and produced one of the pieces of rattan. “See there, Hannah, that’s my blood,” he exclaimed.

“Your blood! Mercy on us, what does the child mean?” she added, as she examined the charred stick.

“It’s dried blood out of my lungs.”

Hannah put the rattan up to her nose, then gave a start. “You don’t mean to tell me, Master Jack, that you’ve been smoking?”

“What if I have?”

“What will your mamma say?”

“I guess she won’t mind.”

Jack knew that this last statement was not true, but as he intended to make a clean breast of it to his mother, he felt justified in assuming a bold front before Hannah.

Hannah shook her head prophetically. “It’s that Bill French, I’ll be bound; he’s always getting you into some sort of mischief. Hadn’t you anything better to do than go smoking that nasty stick?”

“I only smoked a little piece,” Jack answered. “Besides, it isn’t a stick, it’s rattan.”

“I’d just like to get my hand on that Bill French, that’s all,” said Hannah. “Blood out of your lungs, too! We’ll have you sick abed next, and your mamma crying her eyes out.”

Jack, as he went out of the house, was conscious that he had not derived much consolation from Hannah, whose view seemed to confirm the fearful testimony already in his possession. But on closing the front door his attention was at once absorbed by what was going on outside. Some half-dozen boys, including Dubsy Perkins, Bill French, and Harry Dale, were engaged in building a huge dam. It had grown milder since morning and was melting fast. Underneath the piles of snow on either side of the street, the water was beginning to flow rapidly along the gutters down hill. The boys had selected a spot a hundred yards or so below Jack’s house, across the way, and had formed a basin by digging up the snow until they came to the paving. The curbstone constituted one bank, and the other, or rather the whole remaining bulwark of the dam, was made of snow piled up and mashed with shovels until it became firm. While constructing this they had made a temporary dam a few feet further up, to catch the water; but just as Jack joined them Dubsy cut a big hole in it, and the accumulated torrent poured with a rush into the large reservoir. When the smaller dam had emptied itself, they closed it up again in order to strengthen the resistance of the main one.

Most of the boys were armed with shovels obtained from home, and they worked diligently as beavers, building the walls higher and higher as the water increased in depth. Soon it was necessary to fortify the curbstone with a layer of snow to prevent an overflow on to the sidewalk. Every few minutes one of them would test the depth by wading, and it was not long before the water came up to within half an inch of the top of Jack’s rubber boots, so that any careless movement on his part would be sure to let some inside. Their number was rather smaller than usual, as some of the “crowd” which ordinarily collected in front of the grocery shop had gone down to the Frog Pond on the Common to see if there were any “tiddledies,” which, as all Boston boys know, are cakes of floating ice formed during the first stages of a thaw; the sport being to jump from one to another, until terra firma is reached, without tumbling in. This was one of the favorite pastimes of Jack and his friends. The water of the pond was only deep enough to give one a thorough ducking, and though whoever was so unskillful or unlucky as to fall in was sure to be greeted with a jeer of derision, it may be fairly doubted whether the most miserable participants were not the boys who went home dry.

But Jack considered himself very well employed as it was. He felt pretty sure that if there were tiddledies to-day there would be tiddledies to-morrow, and he was interested in making the dam as high as his waist, if it were possible. There was such a volume of water in the basin now that most of their active force was employed in pasting snow against the back of the lower wall, through which there was a steady leakage in spite of their best efforts. Two or three of them, Jack among the number, had already gone in over their boots and wet their trousers more or less above their knees, so that now they stood along the sidewalk, or in the street, gazing contentedly into the enormous pool. Perhaps they realized that there was not much more to be done, for there began to be some fooling. Bill French introduced it by dropping a bit of ice down Harry Dale’s back, gliding away in time so that Harry could not get at him. Harry was just about Bill’s size, but a little more chunky. He knew that Bill could outrun him, so he nursed his wrath for the present, and, keeping his eyes open, bided his time.

The spirit of playing tricks upon one another proved contagious, so that the dam was almost forgotten in the interest of several flights down street and subsequent tussles. Only Jack and Dubsy still worked away at the walls now and then, piling fresh snow on top and stopping the leaks. All of a sudden, as Jack was standing leaning on his shovel trying to understand how a fine stream of water trickling through the solid wall of the dam had thus been able to defy his labors, Harry Dale made a dive at Bill French, who was just behind Jack, and who was off his guard at the moment. Bill gave a shriek, and, to protect himself, tried to interpose Jack between his pursuer and himself by seizing Jack roughly by the shoulders. Jack, who had been already annoyed by Bill several times, and had contented himself with exclaiming, “Quit your fooling, Bill,” or, “Let up, Bill,” goaded now by what he supposed to be a fresh attack, dropped his shovel, seized his tormentor, and suddenly pulling him forward by a quick movement brought him to his knees; then picking up a handful of snow he rubbed it freely over Bill’s face.

“That’s the sort, Jack; give him some more for me,” cried Harry.

Bill, who was struggling with all his might, sprang to his feet the moment he was let free, and launched himself with rage on Jack’s neck. In an instant Jack had grappled with him in self-defense. Bill, who was thoroughly angry and bent on upsetting his adversary, twisted one of his legs inside of Jack’s, and being lithe and active, though small, made it incumbent on Jack to exert himself to avoid being thrown. The pair swayed violently for several moments, then Jack, taking advantage of a failure of Bill’s to trip him up, retaliated in the same fashion, and over they went with Bill undermost. They struck against the wall of the dam, which gave way before them with a slump. Jack, realizing what the catastrophe promised to be, tore himself by an effort of strength from Bill’s grasp just in time to avoid more than a severe splashing, although he fell on his hands and knees, and had a lively scramble to get away from the deluge which came pouring down upon him as soon as the flood-gates were removed. But poor Bill, accelerated probably by the effort which saved Jack, fell with the wall backwards into the deepest part of the dam, so that his head and the upper portion of his body were completely submerged. For an instant his struggling black legs only were visible, then these were drawn under him as he reappeared head first above the surface, wallowing as he staggered to his feet. But Bill was doomed to still further discomfiture, for scarcely had he gained a footing when he slipped and fell sideways again into the dirty, slushy water, his head this time striking the curbstone.

The pain of the concussion must have been tolerably smart, but anger and mortification were sufficient to explain Bill’s facial expression as he lay on the sidewalk after his companions had dragged him out. His eyes were shut and his mouth was wide open, but from it at first no sound issued. It seemed to the others as if the expected bawl were never coming. But it came at last,—a terribly vociferous cry, preceded by a noise like the humming of a large top, which increased in volume until it was a yell,—bursting on them as a thunder storm bursts in wind and rain after the silence which goes before. “Boo-ooo-ooo!” Then it seemed as if he would never stop. Jack and the other boys, who were rather frightened, bent over him with anxious faces, but it was soon apparent that Bill was more mad than hurt.

“I’m very sorry, Bill; I didn’t mean to send you into the dam,” protested Jack.

This attempt at consolation only induced a fresh fit of crying on the part of the victim, which was redoubled when he saw his cap trimmed with astrachan fished out with a shovel from the bottom of the now largely depleted dam by Dubsy Perkins.

“It was an accident; Jack didn’t mean to,” said one of the others.

“Served you right for fooling so, Bill,” exclaimed Harry Dale. “We’d all told you to quit.” Then turning to the rest, Harry said, “He ought to go home or he’ll catch cold, fellows.”

Bill sulkily allowed himself to be lifted to his feet. He stood shivering and dripping like a soused pup, sobbing and snuffling, and eying ruefully his bedraggled cap. “I’ll make you pay for this, Jack Hall,” he blurted out.

But Jack scarcely heard him, for just at the moment he gave a start, and shading his eyes with one of his hands gazed intently down the street.

“Here come the muckers, fellows,” he cried, with excitement.

His companions turned eagerly at his words and looked in the same direction. Sure enough, a gang of other boys, twenty to twenty-five in number, had suddenly emerged from a cross street at some little distance below and was advancing up hill. As the invaders perceived that they were recognized, they set up a derisive, triumphant yell, and dashed onward at a rapid dog-trot, preparing snow-balls and waving sticks.

“There’s a regular posse,” cried Jack. “Who’ll go and tell the other fellows?”

“I will,” cried Harry Dale, and suiting the action to the word he started off to warn their friends, who were running tiddledies.

Meanwhile, Jack and the four other boys, who were all there were, for Bill French had slipped away to change his clothes, retreated slowly as their adversaries advanced, Jack having first, with the instinct of destroying anything that the enemy might find pleasure in, swept away with his shovel the remaining rampart of the dam. They were outnumbered for the moment in the proportion of four to one, and though to retire was ignominious, it seemed necessary under the circumstances. The vanguard of the invading army now began to discharge their snow-balls, the shower of which fell slightly short, but served to whet their ardor. With another cheer and a yell the “muckers” rushed forward, headed by a powerful-looking butcher’s boy, close by whose side ran the ragamuffin who earlier in the day had threatened this invasion, and who could be heard pointing out Jack and Dubsy as special objects of vengeance.

“Them’s the chumps, go for ’em!” he cried.

The little band, reluctant to run, wavered and hurled back a volley of snow-balls, which were returned with vigor. The butcher’s boy was well known in that quarter of the city as a terror. His balls made solely with bare hands were hard as ice, and whizzed like bullets. One of them took Jack in the cheek and stung like mischief, so that the water ran out of the eye on that side of his face.

“Clean ’em out!” yelled the little instigator.

The consciousness that the protecting alley was close at hand nerved the boys to hold their ground for a moment longer, and the courage displayed by them, supplemented by several skillful shots, caused their opponents to halt and advance more deliberately. Just then there came flying round the corner Harry Dale, at the head of the detachment of whom he had gone in search, and whom he had found in the next street peppering the passers-by in a listless fashion, and only too glad to come to the succor of their friends.

“To the rescue!” cried Dubsy, waving his arms above his head; and the reinforcement of a dozen boys swept down upon the combatants.

This sudden turn of affairs was too much for the backers of Joe Herring,—that was the butcher boy’s name,—who turned and fled precipitately, although Joe and one or two others stood their ground manfully and tried to rally them. But the counter cheer was disheartening to an army with victory in its very grasp. They broke and ran helter-skelter, followed closely by Jack and his comrades. Jack kept his eye especially on Joe Herring, whom he longed to pay back for the blow on his cheek; but even Joe did not wait for the new victors to get too near, but ran at last. As for the youngster who had been the guide of the raiders, he had taken to his heels at the earliest sign of danger, and was among the first to reach the halting-place, where the rout finally paused, not far above the cross street from which they had emerged. There they made a stand, while their pursuers, who were not too flushed with success to be cautious, being still numerically inferior, drew up at a respectful distance and held a council of war.

These snow-ball fights were of tolerably frequent occurrence between the boys who lived in Jack’s neighborhood and hordes from other localities, who were apt to be styled muckers by those whose territory they invaded. Once or twice every winter skirmishes such as the one now in progress would develop into battles of some magnitude, enlisting the services, on one side or the other, of all the youth in that part of the city. Contests of this kind had traditions to encourage them. Mr. Warren, of whom you will hear later, who had been the college chum and dear friend of Jack’s father and was now his mother’s adviser, had often told Jack of how, in the days long before he and Colonel Hall were boys, there had been relentless strife between the Round-pointers and the Nigger-hillers, and the North-enders and the South-enders, and the Charlestown pigs, so called, which last named, in the language of a local bard,—

only to be routed and driven back without them. Jack delighted in the accounts of these old contests, and though the names were now changed he had no difficulty in seeing in the Anderson-Streeters and their allies, foes no less terrible than the boys with whom his forefathers had fought.

But it is time to return to the immediate scene of action, where both sides were beginning to realize that there had as yet been no real fighting to speak of, merely a feeling of one another’s strength. Scouts had, apparently, been sent out by the muckers to scour the country, for recruits were coming in by twos and threes. They were a motley-looking crew, as compared with Jack and his friends, including some ragged specimens and several negroes, one of whom, a left-handed lad nicknamed “Custard” on account of the lightness of his sable, was unerring in his shots. Cardigans, for the most part, took the place of overcoats among them, but some wore only tightly buttoned jackets, and kept warm by kicking their toes against the curb-stones, and alternately stuffing their hands into their pockets or blowing on their bare fingers.

From time to time they jeered at and insulted the other army, who, by their pea jackets and rubber boots, suggested the solidity and dignity of grenadiers, an impression which was heightened by the silent disdain with which they received the vituperation showered upon them.

But now the Anderson-Streeters, having accumulated a goodly supply of ammunition, and being twice the numbers of their opponents, show signs of an intention to attack. Their pickets edge up gradually on the sidewalk, more or less sheltered by the trunks of the line of trees which grow there. Snow-balls begin to fly, and Joe Herring at one point and Custard at another move forward simultaneously, which is the signal for a general advance. The grenadiers stand firm without firing a shot. A perfect hail-storm is showered upon them, which they bear unflinchingly. A loud yell spreads along the advancing line, and the flower of all Anderson and Pinckney and Revere streets comes dashing on.

“Now let them have it, fellows!” cries Jack at last, who, with General Warren’s instruction at Bunker Hill, of which he had recently read, fresh in mind, has waited to see the whites of the enemy’s eyes before giving the order.

“That’s the sort!” shouts Dubsy, as the whole volley delivered at short range goes smashing into the faces of their foes.

It is so deadly a volley that two or three of the muckers clap their hands to their eyes and cry out with pain; others sputter as they receive the big hard balls full against their teeth. Several caps are knocked off and fall into the snow. Jack, with his attention riveted on Joe Herring, sees, to his delight, his first shot take the leader squarely in the forehead, so that Joe shakes his head savagely like an angry bull; yet, putting it down, comes on in butting fashion all the same, and hitting Jack plump in the stomach nearly sends him over. Custard, too, apparently is not struck, or at least, if he is, does not mind it, and though some falter he does not, but with another yell rushes at the grenadiers. These muckers, though checked for an instant, have good stuff in them.

“Give it to them again!” cries Jack, who seems to be recognized as the commanding officer.

This volley is well delivered, too, but the on-comers are too near for it to have full effect. The balls go over the heads of Joe and Custard and the other leaders, and before there is time to say Jack Robinson, the two armies are at close quarters. Joe Herring, with a bound like a wild-cat, gets his arms round the neck of the first of the grenadiers in his path, and over they go together, with Joe on top, and rubbing the snow about his adversary’s neck and ears, to accomplish which to the best advantage he squats upon the victim’s chest. This is the first feature in a hand-to-hand scrimmage which is waged for several minutes without apparent advantage on either side, for Jack and Dubsy and Bill Dale, who happen to be close together, form quite as formidable a trio as any opposed to them. The muckers fall before them like nine-pins, and scurry out of their way. Jack gets his fingers inside the collar of his original enemy of the morning, and shaking him as a terrier would shake a mouse, dumps him face downward in a pile of snow and slush. This does Jack’s heart good. The little wretch blubbers and tries to use the stick in his hand, which Jack snatches away from him, and with a proper contempt for so unfair a weapon in a snow-ball fight, sends flying over the wall of a neighboring yard. Sam Willis and George Bird, two more of Jack’s set, do yeoman service also at the other end of the line, driving their opponents back and washing the faces of the fallen with energy.

As used to happen in encounters of old, when knights and other warriors contended together, the leaders on either side seem at first to fight shy of one another. They slaughter the weaker at the outset, making incursions into the enemy’s line, so that often the two armies are hopelessly confused. Indeed, Joe Herring and Custard are a hundred yards apart from Jack and his chief allies, and between them the rank and file are intermingled higgledy-piggledy. But presently, as fatigue and lack of pluck begin to tell, the champions find that the only enemies left worthy of the name are behind them, and by a common instinct turn and eye one another, while the feebler boys draw off a little as though waiting for the strife to be settled once and for all by a battle of the giants.

Jack, at a glance, perceiving that Joe Herring and Custard and one or two others are between him and the main body of his friends, and seized by what he feels to be an inspiration of generalship, shouts to Dubsy and Bill, and Sam Willis and George Bird, who are close beside him, “Cut them off! cut them off!”

Whereupon Jack springs forward at the head of this detachment, imbued with the idea, which they all share with him, of raking the enemy’s vanguard fore and aft before the chief force of the muckers can come up from behind. Inspirited by the plan, those above, among whom Bill French appears in dry garments, present a bold front, and with a shout charge. Joe and Custard, realizing their peril, hesitate for an instant, while a shower of balls pours in upon them, whether to break through the rallied array of grenadiers or to seek to rejoin their friends; but before they can decide they are forced to defend themselves. There are five of them, just equal in number to their intervening enemies, who, with gritted teeth, bear down upon them. Jack again singles out Joe Herring, who, adopting his old tactics, lowers his head and plunges forward. But Jack does not intend to have his wind knocked out of him a second time. He meets Joe with an upper cut of his hand, which, though covered with a mitten, is full of snow, and, jerking the butcher boy’s head up, grapples with him. They wrestle fiercely; meanwhile, three of the other muckers, beset before and behind at the same moment, are rolling on the ground. Only Custard, with Dubsy hanging about his neck and Bill French and another boy on his back, still struggles for freedom, shouting energetically for his friends. They are coming by the score as fast as their legs will carry them, but not soon enough to save their illustrious leader from disaster. Three boys eager to leap upon Joe Herring are prevented only by Jack’s decisive “Leave him to me,” so stand aloof ready to give succor if it be needed. It is scarcely a fair match. Joe is nearly a head taller and is a year older; his muscles are like steel, and, moreover, he has thrashed everybody in the neighborhood who has ever fought with him. If he can once shake Jack off, he will soon knock the stuffing out of him. But Jack knows this, too, and having got a good hold, means to have no fisticuffs if he can help it. He intends to throw Joe if he can. He hears now, as they pitch from one side to the other with faces scarcely an inch apart, the yells of the great body of muckers closing in upon them, and knows that the fight is being renewed on more even terms. Joe knows it, too, and, breathing hard, makes one grand effort to swing his antagonist off his feet, so as to be able to bring terror once more into the general ranks. Jack, however, is ready for him, and, resisting stubbornly, waits until Joe relaxes his muscles a little as the great effort proves unsuccessful, then adroitly twists his leg about the champion’s and throws him. Down they go together, but Jack uppermost, and—long dreamed-of triumph of his life—able to secure a seat upon the butcher hero’s chest, and to stuff his mouth with snow. Joe’s eyes are green as they gaze up at him, and remind Jack of the cat whose death-throes he once witnessed after the dogs had left her. This was the simile employed by Jack in recounting modestly his victory that evening at the tea party.

But victory though it was, it was too short for comfort. Before Jack has time to rub more than a handful of slush over his victim’s face and ears, the army of invasion, by dint of numbers, drive back the grenadiers, disputing every inch of ground, and two big fellows throw themselves upon him and try to drag him off Joe. Harry Dale is on top of them in an instant, and straightway a half dozen on each side precipitate themselves and make a pile, at the bottom of which lies Joe Herring still gripped by Jack. A fearful tussle ensues; the two principals are of course practically powerless to move, and feel that they are well off if able to breathe without difficulty. The legs of both are firmly grasped by a score of arms, which in turn are kept down by boys on top whom others seek to tear away from the pile. As fast as one is pulled off another takes his place; heads, bodies, and limbs are hopelessly intermingled, and neither party seems to have the best of it.

Just as Jack is wondering whether Joe is alive, because he is lying so still, and whether he himself will not stifle, a shrill voice on the outskirts of the fight pipes out, “Cheese it! Cheese it!”

At the words every boy ceases action, those on the pile waiting for confirmation of the news which the alarm has conveyed, and those erect following the gaze of the small mucker who has given it, and who is already preparing to flee down the street. As their eyes perceive at the street corner the officer in a blue blouse with brass buttons, and armed with a rattan, advancing upon them at a slightly quickened gait, a dozen of the urchin’s companions repeat the cry,—“Cheese it! Cheese it!”

In the twinkling of an eye the pile disintegrates itself; the boys of either faction get up and begin to scatter, the muckers hastily and fearfully, the grenadiers more composedly, and yet unequivocally. Jack and Joe uncovered are free to rise, which they proceed to do at once without further hostilities. Jack, with his eye on the policeman, mingles with the band of his friends who, gathered on the opposite sidewalk to that on which the guardian of the peace is advancing, are hoping to slip by him without molestation, feeling, perhaps, that inasmuch as they are on their own territory, and merely defending themselves against invasion, pardon may not be withheld from them. They take care to be so far respectful in behavior as to refrain for the moment from the insulting allusion to a cheese indulged in by their late adversaries, which, for some reason or other, had come to be the recognized phrase of warning and insult combined, among the youth of the city, in referring to the constabulary; its origin—at least Jack and his friends always supposed so—being connected with the theft, either real or imagined, at an earlier date, of one of the commodities in question by a member of the force. They await his coming, grouped together, with almost an innocent air. On the other hand Joe, the moment he is free, glances over his shoulder at the representative of order, puts two fingers in his mouth preliminary to emitting a piercing whistle, shouts “Cheese it!” at the top of his lungs, and scoots down the street at full speed to the spot where he had deposited his butcher’s basket. This regained, he continues his flight at a more leisurely pace until distance hides him from view. His exodus is the signal for a general stampede of his followers, who disappear principally into the cross street by which they had come, pursued with some swiftness by the officer, galled, perhaps, by their impertinence, or encouraged by their pusillanimity. Jack and his grenadiers, not having hoped in vain that the engine of the law would pass them by unharmed, survey the retreat in complacent silence until the policeman is comfortably remote, then at a signal raise their voices in a prolonged, ungenerous, “Cheese it!”

The officer turns and looks back at them angrily, and raises his cane in so threatening a manner that some of the fainter-hearted start to run into Jack’s alley-way. But the alarm is short-lived; their enemy, after an instant’s hesitation, proceeds on his way, reflecting doubtless on the ingratitude of boys. The snow-ball fight is over, and ten minutes later the grenadiers separate to their homes.