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 The justice glanced at the superintendent who seemed
uncomfortable. I suspect that glance deterred the man from offering
to pay the fine. Alas, he was paying the penalty that every man who
dealt with Hervey had to pay; he was feeling contemptible for doing
what was right.
“Oh bimbo, that’s a lot for a feller to have,” said Hervey. “Will you
please not send me to jail—please?”
The justice studied him. It was perfectly evident that he was
resolved to make him an example, but also that was disposed to
temper his judgment with consideration. “No, it don’t need that you
go to jail, I guess,” he drawled: “not if you’re honest. I’ll parole you till
twelve o’clock to-morrow. If you don’t come and pay your fine then,
we’ll have to send for you. You have parents, I suppose?”
“Y—yes—I have.”
“Very well then, you come here to-morrow not later than twelve
o’clock and pay your fine. And I think then you’ll have had your
lesson.” The official glanced significantly at General Pond’s man as if
to say he thought that was the best solution.
And General Pond’s man made a wry face, as if to say that he
supposed so.
As for Hervey, he was so thankful to go free that he did not for the
moment concern himself about the fine. His captor did not
accompany him, but stayed behind to look at the justice’s radio set.
He went out into the road with Hervey, however, and showed him
how he could get back to the ball field without crossing the Pond
estate.
“Does parole mean that you’re—sort of—not free yet?” he asked.
“That’s it, sonny,” said the superintendent. “Long as you don’t fail
you’re all right. You just tell your father. Every kid is entitled to one
flop I suppose; they say every dog is entitled to one bite. And now
you get your lesson. Scoot along now and I hope your team wins.”
 CHAPTER XIX
THE COMEBACK
That was all very well but, you see, this was not Hervey’s first flop.
It was his second one in three days. He was very subdued going
home in the bus, and refrained from telling any one of his adventure
beyond the fence. It was important that his father should not hear of
it.
Not that his father would think the affair so terrible, considered by
itself. It was against the background of his father’s mood that it
seemed so bad. At all events it was very unfortunate. His father was
in no humor to consider all the circumstances. If he knew that
Hervey had been arrested and fined, that would be enough. Hervey
could not tell him after the warning he had so recently received.
But he must get five dollars, and he knew not what to do. Five
dollars seemed a good deal of money to get without giving a pretty
good reason. And he had to get it within a brief, specified time.
Failing, he had visions of an official from Farrelton Junction coming
to get him.
He was very quiet at the supper table that evening and afterward
asked Mr. Walton if he might go out for a while. He had thought that
he might confide in his stepfather and take a chance on the
consequences, but he could not bring himself to do that. He thought
of his stepmother, always kind and affectionate, but he was afraid
she would be agitated at the knowledge of his predicament and take
counsel with her husband. Here again Hervey did not quite dare to
take a chance. He thought of Myra, the hired girl. But Myra was
spending the night with her people and Hervey did not like to seek
her there.
He went down in the cellar and got out his bicycle, the only thing
of value that he possessed. He took it out the cellar way and rode it
downtown to Berly’s Bicycle Shop. It would probably be some days
before either Mr. or Mrs. Walton would ask about the bicycle, and
Hervey’s thought, as usual, did not reach beyond the immediate
present. He did not like the idea of selling his bicycle; it had never
seemed quite so dear to him as on that very ride downtown. But this
was the only solution of his problem.
Mr. Berly looked the machine over leisurely. “How much do you
want for it?” he asked.
It had never occurred to Hervey to ask for more than the sum he
needed, but now he realized that he might sell the bicycle and be a
millionaire in the bargain. “Would you give—twelve dollars for it?” he
ventured timorously.
Mr. Berly scrutinized him. “Your parents want you to sell it?” he
asked.
“Don’t it belong to me?” said Hervey uncomfortably.
“Well, I think you better ask your folks about it first,” the dealer
said. “See what they say, then if everything is all right you come back
here and I’ll give you the right price for it.”
Hervey’s hopes were dashed. He rode his bike down the street
with an odd feeling of being both glad and sorry. But mainly he was
worried, for time was precious and he knew he must do something.
He stopped in front of the home of Harlem Hinkey and gave his
familiar call. He hoped Hinkey would come out, yet somehow he
hoped he wouldn’t come out. He hardly knew how he would
approach the subject with Hinkey.
The Hinkeys had a great deal of money and supplied their son
rather too liberally with it. They had lately moved from New York, and
since Hinkey was unpopular and Hervey was an odd number, they
had struck up acquaintance. Hinkey was a devotee of the practical
joke and his joy was always in proportion to the discomfort of his
victims. He boasted much of his imperial status in Harlem where he
had held sway until his father took over a motion picture theatre in
Farrelton. He came sauntering out in response to Hervey’s call. And
all inadvertently he made it easy for Hervey to begin.
“You want to go down to the show?” Hinkey asked.
 “I would except for this blamed old bike,” said Hervey. “Bimbo, I’d
sell the darned thing for five dollars, it’s such a blamed nuisance.”
“What are you riding it for then?”
“I’m just bringing it home from Berly’s Bicycle Shop,” said Hervey.
“I never use it much. Places where I go, you couldn’t ride a bike. If
you should meet any one that wants to buy a bike, let me know, will
you?”
“Sure,” said Hinkey, uninterested.
“Do you want to buy it?” Hervey asked, emboldened.
“What would I want to buy it for when I drive a car?” Hinkey asked.
That was Hervey’s last hope. He rode his bike home, put it in the
cellar and went upstairs to his room. He had many times disregarded
the law, but he had never before found himself at grips with it like
this. And all because he had been just a little heedless in pursuing a
ball. He thought that the whole business was monstrously unfair.
What had he done that was so bad? It never occurred to him that
the whole trouble was this— that he had got himself into a position
where he could not move either way. He could not run the risk of
making a confident of Mr. Walton in this small matter because of
other matters. This matter was serious only because he had made it
so. He was in a predicament, as he always was. Once he had hung
from a tree by his feet and could not let go nor yet regain hold with
his hands. And there you have Hervey. Mental quandaries or
physical quandaries, it was all the same.
Well, there was one thing he could do which he had many times
thought of doing; he could run away from home. That seemed to be
the only thing left to do. He had many times made unauthorized
excursions from home, but he had never run away. Happy-go-lucky
and reckless as he was, he could not think of this without a tremor.
But it was the only thing to do. He would not go to jail even for a day,
he could not pay his fine, and he dared not tell his stepfather of his
predicament. He resolved to run away.
Once resolved to do a thing, Hervey was never at a loss. He
would go away and he would never return. He would go that very
night. Since he was unable to meet the situation he had a feeling
that at any moment something might happen. Yet he did not know
where to go. Well, he would think about that after he got in bed and
would start off early in the morning; that would be better. There was
a circus in Clover Valley. Why wouldn’t it be a good idea to hike there
and join the circus? Surely they could give him a job. And pretty
soon he would be miles and miles distant. He had had enough of
Farrelton and all this business....
He started to undress, but he was not altogether happy. Suppose
everything did not go right? He had no money—oh well, a lot he
cared! He sat on the edge of the bed unlacing his shoes. No
promptings of sentiment stood in the way of his resolve. But running
away from home without any money was a serious business and he
wondered just how he was going to manage it. He would like to go to
sea, only in this inland city⸺
He was startled by the banging of the front door knocker
downstairs. The sound broke upon his worried cogitations like a
hundred earthquakes. Who could that be at half past nine at night?
He heard footfalls in the hall below, then muffled voices. He crept to
his door, opened it a little, and listened. He was trembling, he knew
not why. That justice man had given him till the next day; if⸺ Why
it wouldn’t be fair at all.
Yet he distinctly heard the word punished uttered by a strange
voice. His heart was in his mouth. Should he climb out through the
window and jump from the roof of the kitchen shed, and then run?
What were they talking about down there? He heard the word police.
Perhaps they knew he could not get the money and were taking no
chances. Then he heard the gentle voice of his stepmother saying,
“The poor boy.” That was himself. He rushed to the window, threw up
the screen, put one foot out. He heard footfalls on the stairs. They
seemed to come half way up, then paused.
“Hervey, dear,” Mrs. Walton called.
He did not answer, but in a sudden impulse sprang back into the
room and grabbed his outlandish, rimless hat from one of the posts
of his old-fashioned bed.
“Hervey, dear?”
She opened the door just as he sat straddling the window-sill
ready to slide off the little shed roof.
 “Here’s a letter for you, Hervey; a young fellow just left it. What on
earth are you doing, my dear boy? You’ll have the room full of flies
and moth millers.”
He came back into the room, tore open the envelope which his
astonished stepmother handed him, and the next thing he knew he
was reading a note, conscious all the while that part of it had
fluttered to the floor.

Dear Hervey:—
I was mighty sorry to learn that you’ve given us up. Craig
Hobson told me and he seems to think it wouldn’t be worth while
talking to you. Of course, it’s better to be out of the Scouts than
to be in and not interested. He says you can’t be in anything and
maybe after all he’s right.
You care so little about our thriving troop that I dare say you
have forgotten about the Delmore prize of five dollars to every
boy that introduces another boy to scouting. Chesty McCullen
went to give your message to Craig and Warner this morning
and stayed at their lawn camp and ate spaghetti and begged to
be allowed to take your place in the patrol. Of course, nobody
can take the place of Hervey Willetts, but Chesty is all dolled up
with a clean face and we’ve taken him in and of course, we feel
that you’re the fellow that wished him onto us.
So here’s the five dollars, Herve, for introducing a new
member into the troop and please accept my thanks as your
scoutmaster, and the thanks of all these scouts who aren’t smart
enough to make heads or tails of you. And good luck to you,
Hervey Boy. You’re a bully little scout missionary anyway.
Your scoutmaster,
Ebin Talbot

Hervey groped around under the bed and with trembling hand
lifted the crisp, new five dollar bill. And there he stood with a strange
feeling in his throat, clutching the bill and the letter while gentle Mrs.
Walton lowered the wire screen so that the room wouldn’t be full of
flies and moth millers.
 “Well! Now aren’t you proud?” she asked.
He did not know whether he was proud or not. But he knew that
the crazy world was upside down. He had sent Chesty to denounce
the Scouts and Chesty had remained and joined. And the Scouts
had sent five dollars and called him a missionary.
“A missionary! Think of that!” said Mrs. Walton.
“It’s not so bad being a missionary,” said Hervey. “That isn’t calling
names. Bimbo, they go to Africa and Labrador—it’s not so bad being
called one.”
“Well, you’d better take your hat off and go to bed now,” said his
stepmother.
“You don’t think I’d let ’em call me names, do you?” Hervey
demanded. “That’s one thing.”
“I don’t see how you can hit them,” laughed Mrs. Walton, “they
seem to have such a long reach. It’s hard to get away from them.”
It certainly was a knockout.
 CHAPTER XX
OMINOUS
“Well, that’s a pretty good joke,” said Mr. Walton at the breakfast
table. “You take my advice and save it for next summer up at camp,
Herve. I think after this we’ll call you the missionary, eh mother?
Shall we call him the missionary? The scout worker! Toiler in the
scout vineyard!” Contrary to his custom, Mr. Walton leaned back and
laughed.
“The boy who brought the letter,” said Mrs. Walton, “told me Mr.
Talbot thought it was fine that Hervey went to the police and saved
an innocent boy from being punished. Poor little Chesty McCullen
⸺”
“I can only hope he proves worthy of the young missionary who
converted him,” Mr. Walton interrupted.
So that was the sense in which those appalling words, overheard
by Hervey, had been used.
“I was going to take him and give him a good time,” said Hervey.
“I think you’re giving him the time of his life,” said his stepfather.
When Hervey went forth after breakfast the world looked bright. A
few days were still to elapse before the opening of school and he
was never at a loss for something to do. He did not keenly feel
Chesty McCullen’s desertion to the enemy’s camp. And I am sorry to
say that he was not deeply touched by the receipt of the much
needed five dollars from the Scouts. Hervey could never be won by
sentiment. He said he was lucky and there was an end of it as far as
he was concerned. Here he had recognition for doing a clean,
straightforward thing (for he had not one streak of yellow in him), but
he took no pride in it. And when they were thrilled at his essential
honor, he was not even grateful. He went upon his way rejoicing. He
did not know anything about honor because he never did anything
with deliberation and purpose. He had the much needed five dollars
and that was all he thought about.
He went to Farrelton Junction that morning and paid his fine, and
on the way back he drove a frightened cat up a tree and climbed up
after it. It may be observed in passing that he was the sworn enemy
of cats. To get one at bay and poke his stick at it and observe its
thickened tail and mountainous back was his idea of high adventure.
The frantic hissing was like music to his ears. He might have had the
stalker’s badge, the pathfinder’s badge, and half a dozen other
badges for the mileage and ingenuity wasted on cats.
On that very day he made a discovery which was to keep him
right side up for several days. During that time Farrelton and his
home saw but little of him. It was the calm preceding the storm. He
discovered along the railroad tracks near Clover Valley, a crew of
workers engaged in lengthening a siding. They had been brought
from distant parts and made their home in a freight car which was
converted into a rolling camp. It had a kitchen with an old-fashioned
stove in it and pots and pans hanging all about. Partitioned off from
this was a compartment with delightfully primitive bunks. The
workers hung out their washing on the roof of the car.
Best of all there was a little handcar at their disposal, which was
worked by pumping a handle up and down. By this means they could
move back and forth from the village of Clover Valley, about two
miles up the line. Between two o’clock and five-nineteen each day,
this little car was safe on the line and they used it to get provisions
from the village. Hervey loved this handcar as no mortal ever before
loved an inanimate thing. To propel it by its creaky pump handle was
a delight. And the old freight car in which those half-dozen men fried
bacon and played cards approximated nearer than anything he had
ever seen to his idea of heaven.
 IT WAS HERVEY’S DELIGHT TO HELP PROPEL THE LITTLE HANDCAR.

These rough, burly men accepted him as they would have

accepted a stray dog and called him a mascot. He hiked to their
camp each day and stayed among them till sunset. He wandered
about and climbed trees and ate with them and fetched saw or
sledge-hammer, and was always on the handcar when it went down
the line to Clover Valley for provisions. When he told the men his
name was Hervey, they dubbed him Nervy and he was fated to
deserve the name. Of course, they liked him. He was serviceable
when he wanted to be and it was all right when he elected to beguile
himself in the dense woods that bordered the tracks.
It was unfortunate that Hervey could not have continued this
harmless pastime which was interrupted by Harlem Hinkey. On a
certain fateful evening he went to the second show with this young
magnate who treated him to ice cream soda on the way home. This
delayed his arrival till about eleven o’clock, and Mr. Walton was
greatly annoyed. He had an old-fashioned idea that a boy should be
home early at night, though occasionally he relaxed in this respect
provided Hervey asked permission. But asking permission was a
thing that Hervey did not know how to do. He breezed into the living
room on this particular night presenting an amusing contrast to the
ominous deliberation of his stepfather who leisurely folded his paper,
laid it down precisely and addressed him.
“Where have you been, Hervey?”
“I went to the second show with a feller—some picture! Bimbo, all
about ranches. That’s where I’d like to go—out west.”
“I wish you wouldn’t throw your cap in a chair, Hervey, dear,” said
Mrs. Walton. “Can’t you hang it in the hall as you come in?”
He disappeared into the hall, and as he did go, Mr. Walton with a
quietly determined look said, “I want to talk to Hervey alone a few
minutes.” Mrs. Walton, with a gentle show of apprehension, went
upstairs.
 CHAPTER XXI
DISTANT RUMBLINGS
“Now Hervey, where have you been?”
“Gee, didn’t I tell you? I went to the second show.”
“It’s after eleven o’clock,” said Mr. Walton, “and you know you
musn’t stay out till that time without our knowing where you are. If
you want to go to the movies you must go to the first show. Wasn’t
that understood? Now school is beginning⸺”
“In New York the fellers stay out till twelve, even one,” said
Hervey. He had up-to-date information from Harlem Hinkey on this
point.
“Well, they don’t here,” said Mr. Walton crisply; “not in this house
anyway.”
“Isn’t it my house—when I grow up?” demanded Hervey.
This was high-handed to the point of insolence, but Mr. Walton
was not angered. Instead he seemed thoughtful. He would have
been justified in feeling hurt, for he had always been generous to this
boy whose own mother had left just nothing except the house which
would be Hervey’s some day. Mr. Walton had improved it and
cleared it of a mortgage, thinking only of its future owner.
“I’m sorry you said that, Herve,” he remarked, “for it makes it hard
for me to deal with you as I’m sure I ought to—as I promised I would.
That is, with the single thought of your own welfare. Somehow I
always feel that I have not full authority over you. I feel I have the
right to help you and guide you, but not to punish you.”
“Sure, I don’t blame you,” said Hervey.
“Of course, this place is to be yours. But you want to be worthy of
it, don’t you?”
“Believe me, I want to get away from it and go out west,” said
Hervey; “there’s no fun in this berg. A feller I know says so too. And I
know how I’m going to get the money too—I do.”
He was probably thinking of employment in the circus which was
doing a three day stand in Clover Valley. Perhaps he had also some
idea of identifying himself professionally with that camp of railroad
workers whose duties sometimes took them far afield.
“Bimbo, you can have the place if you want it,” he said flippantly.
“What’s the use of having it if I can’t stay out of it nights. Anyway,
you’re not my father, are you?”
Still Mr. Walton kept his composure. “I think some boy has put that
idea into your head,” said he. “You never said that before. I don’t
think that comes from your heart, Herve.”
“Well, I’m not going to start going to school anyway. Lots of fellers
my age do other things. Jiminies, I can’t stand that old four-eye
Keller; he razzed me all last term. You say the Scouts and fresh air
are good. Is it good to keep a feller in school till five o’clock. Bimbo,
do you call that fresh air? Good night!”
Still Mr. Walton, unruffled, patient, reasonable, seemed to be
trying to understand this boy and to be fair with him. He watched him
with a keen scrutiny in his kindly, tired eyes. His forbearance seemed
inexhaustible.
“Hervey,” said he finally, “why did you try to sell your bicycle?”
Hervey was quite taken by surprise. “M—my—why did I try to—
when did I try to sell it?” he stammered.
“You tried to sell it to Mr. Berly,” said Mr. Walton. “I met him to-day
and he told me so.”
“He—he said that?” Hervey was right on the edge of a lie, but he
sidestepped it. “Gee, what good is it?” he said.
“You said only last week you were going to take a long ride on it.
Don’t you remember—at the supper table—when Mrs. Tennet was
here?”
“As long as I can’t go anywhere and stay out, what’s the good of
it? Riding around the green isn’t any fun.”
Mr. Walton disregarded this insincerity. “And that’s why you tried to
sell it? The bicycle that your mother promised you when you reached
fifteen, and which I gave you in memory of her—to carry out her
wish?”
 Hervey was silent. For a moment he seemed to be reached.
“You didn’t think you could get enough for it to take you out west,
did you? When you’re old enough if you want to go out west, I’ll give
you the money to go. I’m afraid you’ll never find what you want out
there, but if you want to go, I will be willing—when you get through
school. I can’t make you stay in the Scouts⸺”
“Good night on that outfit,” Hervey interrupted.
“But of course, you must finish school—and high school.”
“Goooood night!”
“And I want you to think about what you’ve said to me to-night,”
said Mr. Walton soberly; “about this being your house and about my
not being your father. And about trying to sell your bicycle that was
really like a present from your own mother—her wish. I want you to
ask yourself whether you—I think you call it playing a game, don’t
you⸺? Whether you’re playing the game right with me, and with
Mumsy, who worries so much about you. But whether you think of
these things or not you must be ready to go to school when it opens.
And you must be in the house each night at half past nine. You must
pay as much attention to what I tell you as to what some chance
acquaintance tells you. You see, Hervey, I’m giving you credit for not
originating some of these things you have said to me. Good night.”
Hervey did not move away. He was just embarrassed enough to
avoid drawing attention to himself by leaving the room. He did not
feel like saying good night, and he did not like to go without saying
good night. It was not an unworthy embarrassment and Mr. Walton
respected it. He rose, a gaunt, bent form, and went out into the
kitchen. Hervey could hear him winding the old-fashioned clock that
stood on the shelf over the stove. Then he could hear the woodshed
door being bolted. Still he stood just where he was. Mr. Walton came
slowly through the hall and Hervey could count his slow footfalls on
the stair. When the coast was clear he went upstairs himself.
 CHAPTER XXII
WORDS AND ACTIONS
Hervey did not ponder upon any of those matters. There was no
action in pondering, and he believed in action. He had never
intended to rebel against going back to school; his remarks along
that line had been quite casual. First and last, he had a good deal of
fun in school. I suppose you might call playing hooky part of the fun
of going to school.
Nor did he have any serious intentions at that time of going west.
His remarks on that score had also been quite casual. The thought
that did linger with him was that New York (especially Harlem) must
be a wonderful place. For the honor of Farrelton and Massachusetts,
he was resolved that Harlem Plinkey’s face should be washed with
the very first dare he offered. Harlem Hinkey was all that was left
now before the opening of school.
For several days Hervey walked the straight and narrow path, and
though he roamed at large in the evenings, he was always home on
time. He was a deft performer on the harmonica and could play
Home Sweet Home in funeral time, in march time and in waltz time.
He would sit on the counter in his father’s store on evenings when
Mr. Walton was at home and play for the two salesgirls to dance.
They liked him immensely and adored his outlandish hat.
He was on his way home from one of these impromptu affairs one
night when he encountered Harlem Hinkey standing in front of the
Hinkey million dollar theatre.
“Want to go in to the second show?” Hinkey asked.
“Nope, I’ve got to be home before ten,” said Hervey.
They walked up the street together and turned into Milligan Street
which ran through to Hart Street on which Hervey lived. Another
block and he would have been safely at home. Milligan Street was
but one block long; it was dominated by the big square wooden
Congregational church which had stood there a good hundred years
before any of the chain of Hinkey million dollar theatres had been
dreamed of. Its white bulk and the massive roof-high pillars before its
spacious portal loomed in the darkness.
“Is that where the kids meet?” Hinkey asked. He meant the
Scouts, but he never paid them the compliment of calling them by
that name.
“Yop,” said Hervey, “only they’re not meeting there to-night. It’s the
Farrelton band. They practise in the Sunday School room. There go
a couple of them now.”
As he spoke a couple of young men hastened along the board
walk beside the church and into the lighted extension.
“Oh, listen to the band,” Hinkey sang rather aggressively. “Come
on, let’s sit down; you don’t have to go home yet,” he said.
Adjacent to the church was a long, ramshackle shed, reminiscent
of a time when people sheltered their horses and carriages during
service. Near this was a rail where horses had once been tied. In
days gone by many were the sermons punctuated by the restive
stamping of these horses from near and far about the countryside.
“I bet you I can walk on that,” said Hervey. “I bet you I can go the
whole length of it on one foot. Do you say I can’t?” After a stumble or
two, he proved that he could. “Come on, let’s sit on the rail; I don’t
have to get in till ten.” Nine-thirty was the limit set, but Hervey had
made it ten and Mr. Walton had not taken official notice.
“Me, I can stay out all night,” said Hinkey. “You’re lucky. I bet when
you went to Coney Island you stayed that late.”
“They were lucky if they saw me back the next day,” said Hinkey.
“Did you go on the boat? I bet you wouldn’t stand on the rail of
that.”
“I bet I did.”
“Not when it was going?”
“Sure I did.”
“Oh bimbo. Let’s see you walk this rail—on one foot.”
“I wouldn’t be bothered,” said Hinkey.
“I bet you were never up in the tower of that Woolworth Building.”
 “I bet I was. I bet I know the man that owns it.”
“I bet you wouldn’t stand on the rail up there—oh boy!”
“I bet I would.”
“I bet you wouldn’t.”
“I bet I would only there’s a man that won’t let you.”
“I bet I could do it when he didn’t see me,” said Hervey. “Will they
let you walk through that tube under the river?”
“Sure, and Election Day is a holiday over there too. This is no
good of a state.”
“I bet you don’t get forefathers’ Day over there,” said Hervey. “So
that proves you’re a fool.”
“I bet if you saw Coney Island you’d want to stay there.”
“Oh bimbo!” said Hervey. “Do they have loop-the-loops there?”
“Suuure they do, and I looped them too.”
“Not without being strapped in, I bet you didn’t.”
“I bet I did.”
“I bet you can’t prove it.”
“I bet I can only the feller is in New York.”
“When you stayed away at night, I bet you didn’t stay with gipsies.
I did.”
“I bet I helped to arrest gipsies,” Hinkey said.
“That’s nothing, I bet I got arrested,” said Hervey.
“I bet you never did.”
“What do you bet?”
“I bet you a ride in my car.”
“Where to?”
“You got arrested! I have to laugh.”
“You think only fellers that live in New York can get arrested?”
“Here comes another band player,” Hinkey said, and raising his
voice in a way of mockery, he paraphrased the familiar song.
“Oh listen to the band,
Oh don’t you think it’s punk.”
“He walks cissified,” he concluded. “Look, he’s got a satchel.”
 “He’s got a cornet or some kind of a trumpet in it,” said Hervey.
“One of them has a long bag with a saxaphone in it—I saw it once.”
“Oh listen to the village band
Oh merrily they make a noise like tin pans.”
sang Harlem Hinkey, and he whistled a kind of insolent
accompaniment as the young man came tripping diagonally across
the street. It must be confessed that this late arriving member had a
decidedly effeminate trip as he came hurrying along and there was a
crude humor to Hinkey’s accurately timed mockery.
“He doesn’t see us,” whispered Hinkey. “I tell you what let’s do;
let’s sneak up behind and trip him up and grab the bag and then we’ll
beat it around the side and we’ll blow the trumpet good and loud
through the window. Hey? We’ll give them a good scare. See them
jump, hey?”
This was a crude enough practical joke, to be sure. It was
characteristic of Hinkey; it was his particular style of mischief. It had
not any of the heroic quality of a stunt. It was not in the class with
Hervey’s deeds of glory. To do our hero credit, to give the devil his
due as they say, he would never have originated this silly joke. But it
was not in his nature to back out of anything. He always moved
forward.
“You trip him up and I’ll grab the bag,” he said. “Then I’ll beat it
around and climb up on the window sill and I’ll give it a good loud
blow. I can climb up there better than you can, I bet you.” It was
amusing how in this wanton enterprise his thought focused upon the
one really skilful feature of it—the vaulting on to the high window
ledge. “Oh bimbo,” he added with relish.
There was something inviting in the thought of tripping up a young
fellow with such a mincing gait. If it were ever justifiable to trip
anybody up he would be the sort of fellow who ought to be tripped.
The two boys made a masterful and silent flank move to the rear of
the hurrying figure. But when it came to tripping him, Harlem Hinkey
fell back and it was Hervey who, dextrously projecting his foot, sent
the young musician sprawling.
 Things happened with lightning rapidity. Aghast at the magnificent
execution of his inspired plan, Harlem Hinkey withdrew precipitately
from the scene. Hervey’s ready skill and promptness and the
thudding descent of the victim had exhausted his courage. And there
was Hervey, already around the corner with the bag. He had not
advanced to the wing of the church for the very good reason that the
rumpus had attracted attention within and already a young man with
a flute in his hand was emerging from the doorway. He and his
companions had been waiting for their dilatory member and now
they beheld him sitting on the pavement nearby, nursing a bleeding
knee while Harlem Hinkey went scooting down the street.
Around the corner, safe from the excited group, Hervey Willetts
walked quickly with a simulated air of unconcern. He was good at
this sort of thing and could adopt a demeanor of childlike innocence
immediately after any stunt which had not the sanction of the law. A
doctor hurrying with his little black bag, intent on an errand of mercy,
could not have been more unconcerned than was our hero as he
hastened along Hart Street. He could not afford to run because
Cartwright, the night cop, was sauntering along on the other side of
the way.
 CHAPTER XXIII
DIPLOMACY
Instead of making the big noise our hero, deserted by his
confederate, was using all his finesse not to attract the attention of
the sauntering cop. At the corner Cartwright paused, glanced about,
then crossed and strolled along a few yards behind Hervey. The
official was quite unconcerned, but Hervey’s guilty conscience told
him that he was pursued. If he looked around or started to run,
disaster might ensue. So he kept up the air of a respectable home-
going citizen and did it to perfection.
He might have been a Boy Scout carrying some one’s satchel as
a good turn. He heard a voice behind him and feared it might be the
outraged band member heading a posse to recover his instrument.
Whoever it was, the person walked with the policeman and spoke of
the weather.
Coming to his own house, Hervey opened the gate and felt
relieved to be within the fenced enclosure. The gravel walk with its
bordering whitewashed stones seemed to welcome him to safety. It
was characteristic, oh how characteristic of Hervey, that he was not
in the least troubled about how he was to return the satchel to its
unknown owner. His only concern was his immediate safety. He
would not lay it down to be lost to its owner. And he could not seek
the hapless victim without giving himself away. So he entered the
house cautiously, went upstairs and laid the satchel in his own
apartment, then descended to the living room where his step-parents
sat reading beside the marble center table. He had overstepped his
time by about fifteen minutes, but Mr. Walton seemed never
disposed to quibble about small infringements.
“I was at the store,” said Hervey.
“They busy?”