“What yo’ doin’?” Bid Stricker wanted to know from the dock. [14]

[14]

We don’t like the Strickers for two cents. They’re a bunch of roughnecks. All they ever want to do is to fight and play mean tricks on people. We don’t believe in that. And because we won’t gang with them, and do the mean things they do, they have it in for us. 

“Beat it,” growled Scoop, motioning the unwelcome newcomers away. 

But they didn’t budge. 

“Must be some kind of a show,” Bid hung on, letting out his neck at the stage and seats. 

“Tell them,” I nudged our leader. “Maybe we can get some money out of them.” 

“Yes,” Scoop told the inquisitive ones, following my advice, “we’re going to give a show. Ten cents for kids. And it’s a peachy show, too. You fellows want to come and see it. You’ll be sorry if you miss it.” 

“What kind of a show?” Bid inquired. 

“Magic.” 

“Who’s the magician?” 

“Me,” Scoop informed modestly, putting out his chest. 

Bid’s cousin gave a scornful laugh. 

“A punk show, I bet.” 

“Punk is right,” another member of the gang [15]chimed in. “Look at the punk seats,” the jealous one pointed. “Some carpenters!” 

[15]

“Wood butchers,” jeered Jimmy Stricker. 

“And look at the punk stage.” 

That made us hot. For we were proud of our work, as we had a right to be. And, with Peg in the lead, we took after the smart alecks and chased them away. 

“We’ll fix your old show,” Bid yelled back. 

 Prev. P 20/153 next