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It happened in Barrel Alley, and it was Tom Slade,as usual, who did it. Picking a barrel-stave out ofthe mud, he sidled up to Ching Wo’s laundry,opened the door, beat the counter with a resoundingclamor, called, “Ching, Ching, Chinaman!”and by way of a grand climax, hurled the dirty barrel-staveat a pile of spotless starched shirts, banged thedoor shut and ran.
Tom was “on the hook” this morning. Inone particular (and in only one) Tom was like “OldJohn Temple,” who owned the bank as well as BarrelAlley. Both took one day off a week. “Old John”never went down to the bank on Saturdays and Tom neverwent to school on Mondays. He began his school weekon Tuesday; and the truant officer was just about assure to cast his dreaded net in Barrel Alley on aMonday as old John Temple was sure to visit it onthe first of the month—when the rents weredue.
This first and imminent rock of peril passed, Tomlost no time in offering the opening number of hiscustomary morning program, which was to play someprank on Ching Wo. But Ching Wo, often disturbed, likea true philosopher, and knowing it was Monday, pickedout the soiled shirts, piled up the others, threwthe muddy stave out and quietly resumed his ironing.
Up at the corner Tom emerged around John Temple’sbig granite bank building into the brighter spectacleof Main Street. Here he paused to adjust the singlestrand of suspender which he wore. The other half ofthis suspender belonged to his father; the two strandshad originally formed a single pair and now, in theirseparate responsibilities, each did duty continuously,since neither Tom nor his father undressed when theywent to bed.
His single strand of suspe