MONDAY MORNING,
OCTOBER 2, 1871
- Randy, Patrick, and Four Fingers Foley -
Early Monday, on the way to school, Justin stopped at his chum Randy’s driveway. The two boys usually walked together.
Randy was waiting, standing on his lawn that was yellowed from the drought. “We’re early, Justin. Before we go to school, do you want to see the kittens?” Randy asked. “They’ll all be gone by Friday, when they’ll be six weeks old.”
“You got homes for all three of them?”
“Yep. One’s going to your sister, Claire, you know. She’s taking it with her when she gets married to Forrest Belmont in December.”
“Mother says Claire will need a cat to keep the poor church mice away.”
“I’d hate to live in a church,” Randy said. “I’d have to be too good.”
“Claire won’t be living in the church. She’ll be next door in the parsonage.”
“Still, I wouldn’t want to live there. And I wouldn’t want to live with Forrest, either, come to think of it. He’s so namby-pamby.”
“Forrest is a good guy,” Justin said. “And he’s no sissy.”
They walked to a shed in the back of Randy’s yard and peeked inside the open door. The mother cat was curled up in a laundry basket with her sleeping babies. Two black and white kittens were snuggled into their mother’s fur. The third, who was completely black except for white whiskers, lay off to one side. She yawned and looked up with golden eyes as the boys approached, then put her head between her paws and went back to sleep.
“They sure are cute,” Justin whispered. He picked up the black kitten and cuddled it under his chin. “I had the choice of a cat or a goat. I chose the goat—especially once I saw Ticktock at Grandpa’s. Besides, a kitten is more of a girl’s pet. It’ll be fun, though to have Claire’s kitten at our house, too. At least until she moves.”
Justin put the kitten back and the two boys walked up to the street. “Whatcha doing this afternoon?” Randy asked. “Going down to State Street?”
“Yes. I’m going to the shop,” Justin answered. Whoops! Randy probably wants to walk with me, and I don’t want him around if Poppy shows up. He’d never stop kidding me about meeting a girl.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Randy asked.
Justin scrambled to think of an excuse. “Not today. I-I’m going to meet someone.”
“Whom are you meeting—a customer?”
“Um, yes, sort of.”
“What do you mean, ‘sort of’? Is your dad letting you sell jewelry?”
Justin frowned. “No, not until I’m older. You know that.”
“He lets Charlie sell jewelry. Doesn’t he trust you?”
“He’ll let me—once I’m Charlie’s age.”
“So who is this sort-of customer you’re meeting, then?”
“Well, I don’t want to go anyway. It’s too warm already. It’ll be really hot this afternoon.” Randy took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead.
The sound of bells and horses’ hooves seemed close by. The boys looked around and could see fire trucks down the street, where a stream of black smoke spiraled to the blue sky.
“I nearly got run over by one of those fire engines yesterday.” Randy wiped his forehead again.
“That’ll teach you not to walk in the street,” Justin said.
“I don’t envy those firemen, working with those big steamers on the trucks. They must be sweating down to their bones, standing there for hours, shooting water from those heavy hoses.”
Suddenly two boys jumped out at them from behind a fence. The bigger of the two, Patrick Cahill, was dressed in rough stained overalls and a raggedy plaid shirt. “Well, if it ain’t the fancy-pants kids from the Rotten Academy,” he said, dragging out the word “academy” in a singsong voice. The real name of Justin’s private school was Rodham Academy, but the tough kids from Conley’s Patch, who hadn’t attended any school for years, had their own name for it: Rotten Academy.
Patrick’s pal, who stood nearby with a sneering grin, was called Four Fingers Foley because he had lost one of his fingers when his hand had got stuck in a warehouse door. Most everyone just called him Fingers. “Why, it’s Justin and Randall, the bigwig boys from the big-shot school,” Fingers taunted. “What are ya goin’ to learn today? How to make a million bucks sellin’ pretty jewels to the rich ladies?”
“We’re learning to ignore the mudsills of society,” Randy said.
“Shh! Don’t ask for trouble,” Justin whispered as he pulled his friend by the arm toward the entrance to the school.
“Go on home—your mother’s calling ya,” Randy sang out over his shoulder. “Your father just fell in a garbage can. Go on home—your mother’s callin’ ya. They’ve come to collect your old man!”
“Aw, shut up, Randy.” Justin slammed his hand over Randy’s mouth. “You’re just baiting them.”
“Don’t you say anything about my old man!” Fingers started after them again. But the boys were almost to the double doors of the school.
“That’s it—run away, like rats,” Patrick howled. “Next time we’ll beat you up!”
“Yeah! I’m not forgettin’ what you just said about my old man,” Fingers added.
“I sure hope we never see them again,” Justin said. “They’re probably already thinking of ways to beat us up or rob our shop.”
“Nah. They’re just a lot of talk,” Randy said as he pulled open the door and went into the large oak-paneled hallway. “Are you going to the shop after school? Or are you going home to change clothes first? I suppose you have to dress up when you go into your dad’s fancy place down State Street.”
“Of course. My father expects me to look decent at the shop. After all, Butterworth’s is the best jewelry store in Chicago—and my father is the best watchmaker,” Justin said. “I’ll go home and change into better clothes. So meet me after school. We’ll walk home together—just in case Fingers and Patrick show up.”
The walk home after school was uneventful, but nevertheless, Justin and Randy walked close together and avoided the area where Fingers and Patrick had darted out from behind the fence.
Once Justin got home and changed his clothes, he hitched his goat to a leash and petted her. Ticktock rubbed her head against Justin’s hand and butted him gently. “Come on—let’s go down to the shop, just in case that Poppy shows up. I’ll show her what a good pet you are. And we’ll prove that goats don’t stink.”
He paused, thinking. Then he quickly raced into the house and returned with a bottle of his father’s best shaving lotion.
“Here you go, Ticktock,” he said, rubbing the lotion over the goat’s head and neck. “A little help in the smell department won’t hurt.”