It is no argument for the slum. It makes toughs, whereas the other
is one in spite of his country home. That is to say, if the latter
is really a home. There is only one cure then--an almighty thrashing.
There ought to be some ex-hoodlums left in Flushing to echo that
sentiment, even after a quarter of a century. From certain signs I
knew, when I hung my curtain between two trees in the little public
park down by the fountain with the goldfish, that there was going
to be trouble. My patience had been pretty well worn down, and I
made preparations. I hired four stout men who were spoiling for
a fight, and put good hickory clubs into their hands, bidding them
restrain their natural desire to use them till the time came. My
forebodings were not vain. Potatoes, turnips, and eggs flew, not
only at the curtain, but at the lantern and me. I stood it until the
Castle of Heidelberg, which was one of my most beautiful colored
views, was rent in twain by a rock that went clear through the
curtain. Then I gave the word. In a trice the apparatus was gathered
up and thrown into a wagon that was waiting, the horses headed for
Jamaica.
Pages:
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214