Chapter I
“Tom!”
No response.
“TOM!”
Still no response.
“Where has that boy gone? Tom!”
No answer again.
The old woman pulled her glasses down, peering over them around the room. Then she pushed them back up, peering beneath them. She rarely looked through them for small things like a boy; they were her prized “formal” pair, more about style than function—she could have seen just as well through stove lids. She paused, puzzled, then spoke, not angrily but loudly enough for the furniture to hear:
“If I get my hands on you, I’ll—”
She didn’t finish the thought, as she was now bent over, poking under the bed with a broom, needing her breath for the jabs. All she found was the cat.
“I swear, that boy’s always getting into something!”
She moved to the open door, standing in it and scanning the tomato plants and weeds in the garden. No sign of Tom. Raising her voice to a level that would carry:
“Y-o-u-u, TOM!”
Behind her came a rustling noise. She turned just in time to catch a small boy by the collar, stopping his escape.
“There! I should’ve thought of the closet. What were you doing in there?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Look at your hands and mouth. What’s that stuff?”
“I don’t know, Aunt Polly.”
“Well, I do. It’s jam—that’s what it is. I’ve told you over and over, if you don’t stay out of the jam, I’ll skin you. Hand me that switch.”
The switch hung in the air—a threat.
“My! Look behind you, Aunt!”
Aunt Polly spun around, pulling her skirts away from imagined danger. Tom seized the moment, darting off, scaling the fence, and vanishing.
Aunt Polly stood there, surprised for a moment, then chuckled softly.
“That boy! Will I ever learn? He’s tricked me enough times that I should expect it by now. But old fools are the worst fools. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, as they say. But he never plays the same trick twice. How’s anyone supposed to keep up? He knows exactly how long he can push me before I lose my temper. He also knows if he can make me laugh or stall for a minute, I won’t lay a hand on him. I’m not doing right by that boy, that’s the truth. Spare the rod, spoil the child, as the Good Book says. I’m setting us both up for trouble, and I know it. He’s a little devil, but bless him, he’s my poor sister’s son, and I just don’t have the heart to whip him. Each time I let him off, my conscience eats at me, and every time I hit him, my heart breaks. It’s true what the scripture says, life is full of trouble. He’ll skip out this afternoon, and I’ll have to make him work tomorrow to make up for it. It’s hard to make him work on Saturdays when all the boys have the day off, but he hates work more than anything, and I have to do my duty by him, or I’ll ruin him.”
As predicted, Tom played hooky and had a good time. He made it home just in time to help Jim, the small black boy, saw wood and split kindling for the next day. Well, he made it back in time to tell Jim about his adventures while Jim did most of the work. Tom’s younger half-brother Sid had already finished his chore of gathering chips, being a quiet boy without adventurous ways.
While Tom was eating supper and sneaking sugar whenever possible, Aunt Polly began asking questions, full of hidden traps. She prided herself on her talent for clever tricks, enjoying the thought of her simple schemes as brilliant strategies.
“Tom, it was pretty warm in school today, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Really warm, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Didn’t you feel like going swimming, Tom?”
Tom felt a flicker of panic and suspicion. He studied Aunt Polly’s face but found no clues. So he said:
“No, ma’am—not much.”
Aunt Polly reached out, feeling Tom’s shirt.
“But you’re not too warm now.” She felt smug, thinking she’d uncovered evidence that his shirt was dry. However, Tom now understood her game.
“Some of us pumped water on our heads—mine’s still damp. See?”
Aunt Polly was annoyed at missing that detail and now devised a new approach:
“Tom, you didn’t have to undo your shirt collar where I sewed it to pump water on your head, did you? Unbutton your jacket!”
Tom’s face lit up. He opened his jacket, revealing his securely sewn shirt collar.
“Bother! I was sure you skipped school to go swimming. But I forgive you this time, Tom. I guess you’re a ‘singed cat’—better than you look.”
She felt a mix of disappointment that her plan failed and relief that Tom had behaved, for once.
Sid, however, piped up:
“Well, I thought you sewed his collar with white thread, but it’s black.”
“I did sew it with white! Tom!”
But Tom didn’t wait around. As he bolted out the door, he called back:
“Sid, I’m going to get you for that!”
In a safe spot, Tom checked two needles hidden in his jacket, each with different colored thread—one white, one black.
“She wouldn’t have noticed if not for Sid. Darn it! Sometimes it’s white, sometimes it’s black. I wish she’d stick to one or the other. But I’ll get Sid back for this. He’ll learn!”
Tom wasn’t the model boy of the village. He knew the model boy and couldn’t stand him.
Within minutes, Tom had forgotten his troubles, not because they were lighter than a man’s, but because a new fascination had taken over—a new whistling trick he’d learned from a black man. It involved a bird-like warble made by tapping the roof of the mouth with the tongue. If you were ever a boy, you probably remember it. With some practice, Tom had it mastered, and he strolled down the street, whistling proudly, feeling as triumphant as an astronomer discovering a new planet. For pure joy, the boy might even have had the upper hand over the astronomer.
The summer evenings were long, and it wasn’t dark yet. Tom stopped whistling when he noticed a stranger ahead—a boy slightly bigger than himself. In the small, shabby village of St. Petersburg, a newcomer of any kind was a rare and exciting sight. This boy was dressed unusually well for a weekday, which left Tom astonished. His cap was neat, his blue jacket new and tidy, and his trousers matched. He wore shoes, and it was only Friday! He even had a necktie—a bright ribbon. The boy’s polished appearance gnawed at Tom. The more he looked, the shabbier Tom’s own clothes seemed. Neither boy spoke. They circled each other, never breaking eye contact. Finally, Tom said:
“I can lick you.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“I can do it.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t.”
“I can.”
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
“You can’t.”
Another pause. Then Tom asked:
“What’s your name?”
“None of your business.”
“I’ll make it my business.”
“Why don’t you?”
“If you say much more, I will.”
“Much—much—much. There, now.”
“Oh, you think you’re smart, don’t you? I could beat you with one hand tied behind my back.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Maybe I will.”
“Oh yes, you and what family?”
“Smarty! You think you’re something, don’t you? Oh, what a hat!”
“You don’t like it, lump it. I dare you to knock it off.”
“You’re a liar!”
“You’re another.”
“You’re a fighting liar, and you won’t back it up.”
“Take a walk!”
“If you keep on, I’ll bounce a rock off your head.”
“Of course you will.”
“I will.”
“Then do it.”
“By jingo! I will.”
The new boy took out two coins and held them out mockingly. Tom slapped them to the ground. In an instant, both boys were rolling in the dirt, punching, scratching, and pulling at each other’s hair and clothes. After a minute of tussling, Tom ended up on top, pounding the new boy.
“Say ‘enough’!”
The boy struggled but finally gasped, “Enough!” Tom let him up, warning:
“That’ll teach you. Watch who you mess with next time.”
The new boy brushed himself off, sniffling, and walked away, occasionally looking back and threatening what he’d do to Tom next time. Tom responded with jeers, turning to leave. As soon as Tom’s back was turned, the boy threw a stone, hitting Tom between the shoulders before bolting. Tom chased him, discovering where he lived. He stood at the gate, daring the boy to come out, but the boy only made faces through the window. Finally, the boy’s mother appeared, calling Tom a bad child and ordering him away. Tom left, vowing to lay in wait for the boy.
That night, Tom climbed through the window, only to be caught by Aunt Polly, who, upon seeing his dirty clothes, resolved to make him work hard the next day.