oh, long, long before. It was a young war all
by itself. It happened when Tom was a hoodlum and lived with his drunken
father in Barrel Alley. And in that little affair Tom Slade made a
stand. Filthy little hoodlum that he was, instead of running when Pete
Connegan got down out of his truck and started after him, he turned and
compressed his big mouth and stood there upon his two bare feet,
waiting. It was Tom Slade all over--Barrel Alley or No Man's Land--_he
didn't run_.

The slime of the tomato has long since been washed off Pete Connegan's
face and the tomato is forgotten. But the way that Tom Slade stood there
waiting--that meant something. It was worth all the rotten tomatoes in
Schmitt's Grocery, where Tom had "acquired" that particular one.

"Phwat are ye standin' there for?" Pete had roared in righteous fury.
Probably he thought that at least Tom might have paid him that tribute
of respect of fleeing from his wrath.

"'Cause I ain't a goin' ter run, that's why," Tom had said.

Strange to relate, Pete Connegan did not kill him. For a moment he stood
staring at his ragged assailant and then he said, "Be gorry, ye got some
nerve, annyhow."

"If I done a thing I'd see it through, I would; I ain't scared," Tom had
answered.

"If ye'll dance ye'll pay the fiddler, hey?" his victim had asked in
undisguised admiration....

Oh well, it was all a long time ago and the only points worth
remembering about it are that Tom Slade didn't run, that he was ready
to see the thing through no matter if it left him sprawling in the
gutter, and that he and the burly truck driver had thereafter been good
friends. Now Tom was an ex-scout and a returned soldier and Pete was
janitor of the big bank building.

He was sweeping off the walk in front of the bank as Tom passed in.

"Hello, Tommy boy," he said cheerily. "How are ye these days?"

"I'm pretty well," Tom said, in the dull matter-of-fact way that he had,
"only I get mixed up sometimes and sometimes I forget."

"Phwill ye evver fergit how you soaked me with the tomater?" Pete asked,
leaning on his broom.

"It wasn't hard, because I was standing so near," Tom said, always
anxious to belittle his own skill.

"Yer got a mimory twinty miles long," Pete said, by way of discounting
Tom's doubts of himself. "I'm thinkin' ye don't go round with the scout
boys enough."

"I go Friday nights," Tom said.

"Fer why don't ye go up ter Blakeley's?"

"I don't know," Tom said.