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He was sorry now that he had not mentioned these things when gruff, well-meaning Pete Connigan had spoken disparagingly of the Slades. He was glad he was not an adopted American like Frenchy, but that all his family had been Americans as far back as he knew. He was proud to "belong" to a country that other people wanted to "join" that he had never had to join.
Temple blustered he was not bad at heart; but on an evil day Tom had thrown a rock at Bridgeboro's distinguished citizen. It was a random, unscientific shot but, as luck would have it, it knocked John Temple's new golf cap off into the rich mud of Barrel Alley. It did not hurt John Temple, but it killed the goose that laid the golden eggs for the Slades. Mr.
Temple's dignity was more than hurt; it was black and blue. He would rather have been hit by a financial panic than by that sordid missile from Barrel Alley's most notorious hoodlum. Inside of three days out went the Slades from John Temple's tenement, bag and baggage. There wasn't much baggage.
All his fine, patriotic memories of the Slades were knocked in the head, but even in these lonely hours he was stanch for Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam might make a mistake a terrible mistake, as he presently would do "but anyway he's more important than I am," he said. Occasionally he listened wistfully to the sounds outside and they made him wish he could see as well as hear.
There would have been all the fight ended, but the night came too soon; if the night had not been, they all would have been slain! The night separated them over slades and over downs; and Modred came so far forth, that he was at London. The burghmen heard how it had all fared, and denied him entry, and all his folk. Modred thence went toward Winchester; and they him received, with all his men.
Sometimes they would assume to be serious and ply him with questions, and he would fall into their trap and proudly tell about poor old Uncle Job and of how his father had licked him, by way of proving the stanch Americanism of the Slades. In their hearts they all liked him; he seemed so "easy" and bluntly honest, and his patriotism was so obvious and so sincere.
He was thinking how glad and proud he was that his father had licked him for forgetting to hang out the flag. It had not been a licking exactly, but a beating and kicking, but this part of it he did not remember. He was very proud of his father for it. It was something to boast about. It showed that the Slades
Linden confidentially informed us, his son Tom had been for some time engaged. "I don't know much about her family," observed Mr. Linden one day, in the course of a gossip at the office, "but she moves in very respectable society. Tom met her at the Slades'; but I do know she has something like thirty-five thousand pounds in the funds.
"'ABOLITION. The reader is referred to an interesting article which we have copied from the Cincinnati Republican a paper which lately supported the principles of Democracy; a paper which has turned, but not quite far enough to act with the Adamses and Slades in Congress, or the Whig abolitionists of Ohio.
Then there were Zacker's Hook, the Conigers, Cheesecake, Hawkes, Rials, Purley, Strongbowls, Thrupp, Laines, Sannetts, Gaston, Wexils, Wernils, Glacemere, several Hams, Haddons, and Weddingtons, Slades, and so on, and a Truelocks. These were quickly put down; scores of still more singular names might be collected in every parish.
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