FullReads

“I don’t know what is ‘pole-vaultin’ even,” said Morris, and asked with some natural curiosity what parts he and other possible competitors were to take in these Games in Gardens.

“Oh, you,” answered Patrick, with happy condescension, “you all is goin’ to get licked. That’s what you’re goin’ to do. Don’t you worry.”

But this role did not appeal strongly to either of his colleagues.

“I don’t know do I likes gettin’ licked,” Morris objected with some reason.

“Und I don’t know will I get licked,” said Nathan Spiderwitz, the valorous. “I jumped once, und I run too. I jumped off of a wagon. A awful big grocery wagon, mit crackers on it. Und I jumped when it was goin’. Und I run like an’thin’.”

“You was throwed off,” taunted Patrick, “you was throwed off by the man when he seen you hookin’ crackers.”

“Ye lie,” said Nathan frankly. “I jumped as soon as he seen me, und I guess I can jump some more. You ain’t the only boy what can run und jump, you old-show-of-freshy Irisher.”

It was with difficulty that the peaceful Monitor of the Gold Fish Bowl restored harmony, and time was added unto difficulty before the Games in Gardens were satisfactorily arranged.

Had it been possible to consult Miss Bailey, all would have been plain and simple sailing. She was the First Reader’s home port, but she was now blockaded for her own benefit. The suggestions of Patrick’s big brother were overwhelming and technical. And Isaac Borrachsohn, through constant questionings, grew at once so extravagant and so hazy in his recollections as to be practically useless. Patrick’s mother, when applied to for a morning’s use of her yard, was curt and kind.

“Use it if ye will,” said she, “but don’t clutter it, an’ don’t fall out of me pear tree.”

It was at about the time of the densest discouragement that Miss Bailey, all unknowing, came to their relief. She brought to Room 18 and passed about among the First Readers a copy of an illustrated “Weekly” containing pictures of the later and more important contest than that which Isaac had witnessed. And Ignatius Aloysius Diamentstein, by that time admitted to the track team, appropriated it at the lunch hour, and thereafter it served as “The Complete Guide to Games in Gardens.”

The day was set. A Saturday morning in late May. The guests in ordinary were invited. In other words the feminine First Readers had been told that they would be admitted to Patrick Brennan’s yard at ten o’clock on that May morning, on condition that each would bring a flag and say nothing to the uninvited boys. The free-for-all spirit was not endorsed by Patrick, and the contestants were only seven, picked and chosen, be it said, with a nice adjustment to Patrick’s own prowess, for “I ain’t goin’ to be licked in me own yard,” had been his steadfast determination throughout.

Nathan Spiderwitz was given to inspirations always inconvenient and distressing. He experienced one at this eleventh hour when all the arrangements were completed, and it remained only to invite the guest of honor.

“Who gives the prizes?” he demanded, as he and Patrick were superintending the construction of a grand stand made of soap-boxes and a broken sofa. “Where is the prizes, and who gives ’em?” he repeated.

“Mind your own business,” was Patrick’s useful answer. It showed a bold front and left time for thought.

“Who gives ’em?” insisted Nathan.

“Don’t you worry ’bout prizes,” muttered Patrick darkly, “they ain’t none of your business. You got a swell chanst to git any prizes in my yard. Not when I’m in it, ye don’t.”

Thus with Nathan. But with Morris he was more frank.

“There’s one thing,” said he, when he found that crack long-jumper in the boys’ yard at luncheon time, “what I’m going to let you do.”

“Is it nice for me?” queried the Custodian of Gold Fish.