froze, but my hands, without my brain having the simplest clue what they were up to, calmly raised the umbrella I was carrying for my mother and aimed it point first at the stampeding animal like a rifle. Just as the mad mutt was about to sink its teeth into me, my right thumb released the spring catch that held the umbrella shut. The contraption flew open with a loud snap, and the dog ran yelping down the street with its tail between its legs. The dog catcher managed to huff out “Quick thinking, son!” as he chased the canine. Smart thinking? My brain had nothing to do with it. It was all in the hands.
But today I was facing something much worse than a mad dog. It was Sean Kelly. With my brain “watching” in disbelief, my hands suddenly dropped my newspapers and reached behind me. I felt something soft and furry. When I glanced down, I had a dead porcupine in each hand. I was holding each one by a front leg so that their long, bushy tails nearly touched the ground by my feet. I had no idea what I was going to do with them until the first Kelly, Hammy, made his move. He was a huge, round lump of a kid who got his nickname because even in winter his face was always red and shiny like a freshly boiled ham.
“Got ’em, Sean!” Hammy roared in triumph as he lunged for me.
My left hand snapped up, and we both stood there amazed as two dozen black and white needles suddenly appeared in Hammy’s right hand and forearm. “Awwwaww-waaaw!” he keened in pain and horror.
Hughie Kelly, Sean’s brother, closed in on my right side. In an earlier era Hughie’s ancestors must have been hunted for their pelts, because he was the hairiest kid I had ever seen. Like his kin, Hughie was also dumber than a donkey cart full of doorknobs. He took one look at what I was gripping, stuck out his hand, and bellowed, “Gimme those!”
Two seconds later there were two Kellys screaming, “Aww-waww-waaaw!” The other gang members kept a wary distance, but I was still trapped.
The Kellys were well known in the market. All around me I could hear vendor stalls closing down. Doors slammed. Wooden screens rattled to the floor. Mr. Crane and the other vendors were shouting for the police, but it was unlikely the bulls would get here in time.
Judging by the relaxed smile on his face, Sean shared my opinion. “We’re gonna kill you, McCross. You should have paid your rent when you had your chance.”
Something tried to sneak up quietly on my right. Without taking my eyes off Sean, I flicked my right porcupine. A third voice joined the “Aww-wawwwaaaw!” chorus. One more and we’d have a barbershop quartet. Something moved to the left, and again I snapped a porcupine, but this time I missed. Even a Kelly could learn a new trick eventually.
At that point Sean’s massive freckled head split in a grin. “Wrap your coats around your arms!” he ordered. After half a minute or so, most of the Kellys figured out what he meant. By wrapping their heavy leather and wool winter coats around their arms, they could fend off my porcupines, which were beginning to look pretty bald, anyway.
One by one they followed Sean’s example. I watched them, feeling like one of those idiot Spartans my father had told me about — the three hundred who’d been tremendously outnumbered but who’d bravely held fast while they were annihilated by the archers of their enemies, the Persians. My father was always reading history books to me about brave people who stood their ground until they died and became famous. I preferred cheap westerns where the smart guys ran away and hid until the cavalry arrived and rescued them in the nick of time.
I didn’t hear any bugles, but without warning both of my boots were sliding straight backward.
“Watch your head, Bertie!” Mr. Crane cried as he dragged me by the seat of my trousers under the bottom half of his stall door. Ka-clunk! went the door as he kicked it shut in the faces of two Kellys trying to follow.
“Over the screens!” Sean commanded, and immediately there was a thundering din as a dozen Kelly hobnailed boots began fighting their awkward way up over the stall walls.
At the back Mr. Crane’s stall was connected to a small passageway that led to the aisle behind us. “Go out that way and run like heck!” he whispered to me. “And give me those!” He snatched back his porcupines.
I emerged out the back door just as the first Kellys came around the corner to the same aisle. Tipping over a delivery cart full of cheese wheels in their direction, I scrambled north.
My escape plan was to run down the main aisle of the market and out through the north doors to lose myself in the crowds of holiday shoppers on Front Street. It was a good scheme except for one thing. The merchants in the centre aisle were mostly bakers and confectioners. At this time of day their aisle was jammed with shoppers picking up last-minute Christmas orders.
I sidestepped a string of top-hatted carollers slowmarching through the market and singing “Deck the Halls.” It was the carollers who got decked as a flying wedge of Kellys crashed through their centre, trying to catch up to me. As carollers scattered like bowling pins, I weaved my way toward the north doors.
Sean must have guessed my plan, because he sent some of his boys dashing up the less-crowded aisles on either side to head me off before I could reach my destination, now only twenty yards away. Fortunately, a tin-eared Salvation Army cornet player was doing a fine job of driving shoppers away from his kettle near the doors. In the clear, finally, I actually thought I was going to make it. Then two women pushing massive baby buggies locked bumpers and began insisting that the other go first through the doors.
Blasted Canadians and their good manners! I thought. My exit was blocked and I was about to be killed because somebody wanted to be polite.
There was no way out — only up!
The area near the north doors was nicknamed Little Berlin because it was dominated by stalls of German sausage makers. This year, to celebrate Christmas in the German tradition, they had all chipped in and erected a huge spruce in the middle of the aisle. It was covered in flags, streamers, waxed fruit, whirligigs, and other hideous gewgaws. When I told my father about it, he said it was a “Christmas tree,” a tradition we had picked up from the British, who had gotten it from the Germans.
The tradition seemed like a really dumb idea to me. Who in his right mind wanted a dirty dead tree dragged inside his home just to hang fruit and tinsel on it until all the needles fell off and then have to haul it back out again? Some people even wired candles on them, lit them up, and then stood around with buckets of water ready to throw in case the tree caught fire. Rich people now put them up in their homes every Christmas, but I doubted the trees would ever catch on with sensible folk.
Anyway, with the Kellys closing in like a pack of freckled foxes, I did my best imitation of a Christmas squirrel. The bottom of the tree was anchored in a big wooden tub full of sand. For extra safety a piano wire was wrapped around the tree and connected to the ceiling near the top. I heard the wire go twang! like a banjo as soon as I started clawing my way up through the bottom branches.
Immediately below me I heard a whole lot of German cussing. At least I think it was cussing. It was hard to tell. Most German butchers sounded as if they were cussing even when they were just saying “Guten morgen!” to one another.
A dozen burly butchers fought to keep the Kellys from climbing up their tree after me. I heard Irish cussing mixed with the German. Fortunately, there were plenty of butchers to keep the Kellys under control. Just two of the smallest weaselly ones slipped through and scrabbled up the tree before they could be yanked down again. With three of us aboard, the tree shook violently and the wire at the top twanged higher and higher each time someone moved up a branch. Glass balls and whirligigs fell like
