THURSDAY MORNING,
OCTOBER 5, 1871
- Gentleman’s Agreement -
Justin walked the same streets they had the night before. Where had Poppy gone? Back to that awful place where she’d lived? He hoped not.
Justin tried to take in everything—every shadow, corner, alley, and doorway. But Poppy seemed to have vanished off the earth. Please, God, let Poppy be all right.
Suddenly his eyes fell upon a girl at the end of the street. It’s Poppy! She looked up at him and it seemed as if she was about to call to him. But then she ducked into an alley and disappeared.
“Stop! Poppy!” Justin flew down the street, raced into the alley, and threw aside the many crates, boxes, and trash cans that were strewn haphazardly everywhere. “Poppy!” he yelled.
She was not there.
I’ll go down to the wharves by the lake, which was my original plan. Since she wanted to run away on a steamer, I’ll check every boat that’s hitched up by the lake and then I’ll check the river.
On the way to the lake, he passed a park where a few mothers were walking their children in prams. One vagrant stumbled around picking up trash and looking in rubbish bins.
Justin headed toward the grubby hobo, who seemed to be searching for food. “Have you seen a girl, about twelve, who might have spent the night on the streets around here?”
“Hmm,” said the man. “I saw one little girl. She seemed younger than twelve, though. She had no food, so I walked away.”
“Poppy looks younger than twelve. Where did she go?”
“Up the street over there.” The man put on a pitiful face. “Hey, sonny, ain’t you got any money or food for me? Be a kind boy. I’m real hungry.”
“Sorry,” Justin said, and ran across the road and up the hill. “I think that was Poppy I saw earlier,” he said to himself. “But where would she go from here?”
He was about to head back when he stopped in his tracks. Patrick Cahill and Four Fingers Foley were running toward him. “Hey, Rotten!” Patrick called. “We warned ya we’d get ya if you showed up in our territory.”
Justin wanted to run, but he thought maybe these thugs would know where Poppy was. Still, would they tell him? “I’m not bothering anyone,” Justin said as the boys came close.
“You’re botherin’ us,” Fingers said with a sneer. “And we’re goin’ to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.”
Justin turned to run, but it was too late. Fingers caught him by his jacket and pulled him back. Then he punched Justin in the gut.
Panic and the blow to the stomach were too much, and Justin’s breakfast came up in a gush. He threw up—right in Fingers’s face and all over his pullover sweater.
“Yuck!” Fingers screamed, backing away.
Patrick stopped his forward pursuit of Justin and backed up cautiously. But then, seeing Fingers covered with vomit, he doubled over, laughing.
“It ain’t funny!” Fingers yelled, looking down at the stinking mess. He began to pull the sweater over his head, but now his face was buried in the vomit. He yanked the sweater back down again, and then, as his head emerged, now covered with even more slop, he heaved a gushing fountain of his own breakfast out of his mouth—this time all over Patrick!
All three boys stared down at their soggy, smelly clothes. Then they looked up at one another. Justin, who was about to run away, started to laugh.
“You are a hog,” Fingers said to his chum, Patrick. “I should take ya to the slaughterhouse.”
“You are a stinkin’ rotten swine yourself,” Patrick hollered.
Justin said, “I’m not walking all the way home in this stink.” He took off his jacket and threw it into a nearby rubbish bin.
Patrick did the same. Fingers took a pocketknife out of his pants and cut away at the sweater. “This was my best sweater,” he moaned.
“You mean it was your only sweater,” Patrick said.
Fingers turned to Justin. “It’s all your fault!”
“Well, I hope you’ve learned not to punch me in the stomach,” Justin replied. Then he added, “If you guys need sweaters or jackets, come on down to the Methodist church on Wabash Saturday morning. There’ll be a load of good clothes there—free.”
“We don’t need any help from you!” Fingers said.
“If you find another sweater, you won’t have to explain what happened to that one,” Justin said.
“I told you, we don’t need charity from you!” Fingers said in a saintly voice.
“Oh, forget it, then,” Justin replied, turning to walk away.
“So why are you down here—and on a school day, too?” Fingers asked.
“I’m looking for Poppy.”
“Poppy? Everyone’s lookin’ for her,” Patrick told him.
“Like who?” Justin asked.
“Like Ma Brennan,” Patrick answered. “Poppy was real stupid to run away from Ma. Now she’s in real big trouble.”
“Serves her right. No one dares to run away from Ma,” Fingers added.
“Listen,” Justin said, “if you see Poppy, tell her to come to my house right away. Let her know she’s not in trouble with us. It’s real important.”
“Why should we do any favors for you?” Patrick asked. “What’s in it for us?”
“I’ll see that you get a new sweater and shirt at the church fair. That way you won’t get in trouble with your mothers. How about it?”
Patrick was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said, “We’ll tell Poppy if and when we see her.”
“Be sure you live up to your end of the deal,” Fingers said. “A sweater for me and a shirt for Patrick.”
“Methodist church. Wabash Avenue. Saturday morning,” Justin said. “Bring Poppy, if you can.”