Faster Than Wind. Steve Pitt
a good lad,” Mr. Crane said, pointing at me.
“He’s telling the truth, Jack,” Tommy said.
Jack seemed to give Tommy’s opinion considerable weight. He looked down at me like a bored cat clutching a rodent with his paw, trying to decide whether to let me go or bite my head off. “I hate newspaper kids,” he finally muttered.
“Royal George looks good for Boxing Day, Jack,” Tommy said quietly.
“What are the odds?” the cop asked.
“Three to one on Phelan’s IT.”
“So then why Royal George?”
“Phelan wins when the wind’s up. Royal George wins when the wind’s down.”
“You think it’ll be down?”
“Wind’s blowing strong from the west tonight,” Tommy said. “That usually means a lull for a day or two afterward. Three to one Royal George.”
Jack released a long, beery sigh. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Bertie McCross, sir.”
“McCross?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where do you go to school?”
“Parkdale Public, sir.”
Jack and the other policeman exchanged glances. The powerful hand gripping me let go of my collar, and my heels touched the floor for the first time in five minutes.
“Okay, McCross,” Jack said. “This is your first, last, and only warning. Stay out of my beat. Go peddle your papers in Parkdale.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if I ever see you again, you’ll be getting a taste of this,” Jack said, smacking a lead-weighted nightstick hard against his hand.
“Yes, sir.”
“But the rest of you pikeys are going to lockup,” Jack growled. “If you’re lucky, you’ll get out by St. Valentine’s Day.”
The Kellys were frog-marched out between the cops and a posse of butchers. I scanned the crowd for Sean, but he was long gone. I noticed the blond girl again giving me one final look. Then what I had thought was a suit of armour suddenly moved. The metal suit turned out to be a woman in a silver dress. Her starched silk dress looked so much like sheets of metal that I fully expected to hear it squeak and clank as she hustled the beautiful blond girl away. My eyes followed them to the door, and when the young lady glanced back and smiled one last time, I felt blood rush to my face.
“You’d better go home, Bertie!” Mr. Crane suggested, suddenly smiling. He had seen me gazing at the young girl. His voice brought me back to reality.
As I thanked Mr. Crane and the flower lady for standing up for me, I saw Tommy and Ed heading out the south doors. I ran after them. “Hey!” I cried.
“Hey, yourself,” Ed answered.
“Thanks a lot. You saved me — twice.”
“You made the day ... different,” Tommy said.
“I always seem to do that for people whether I want to or not.”
Tommy laughed. “Yeah, you climb pretty good there, kid.”
“Hey, Tommy, we could use him,” Ed said.
“What?”
“For the race crew. Did you see the way he hanged on?”
“Hung on,” I said. I had my father’s unfortunate habit of correcting people’s bad English.
Tommy and Ed looked at me funny and then broke out laughing. “Well, he can sure climb, but he’d probably still be scared silly,” Tommy said.
“He just took on the whole Kelly clan and is still standing,” Ed said.
“You’re right. He might have some guts.”
I had no idea what they were talking about, but I wasn’t anxious to leave, with Sean and what was left of his gang likely still out there.
“What’s your name, anyway?” Tommy asked.
“Bertie.”
“Bert, you ever been on an iceboat?”
“No,” I told Tommy, “but before tonight I’d never climbed a Christmas tree, either.”
Tommy laughed. “He’s crazy.”
Ed grinned. “We need crazy.”
“You’re right.” Tommy put a hand on my shoulder.
“C’mon, Bertie, we’ve got something to show you.”
With Ed and Tommy as my escorts, we walked out the south door. The St. Lawrence Market used to sit right on the waterfront. Now much of the shoreline had been extended south with landfill, but a water canal had been left so that small boats from Lake Ontario could still sail up almost to the foot of the market to deliver their goods. At this time of year all the water between the Toronto shoreline and the islands was frozen solid. The silhouettes of several cabbage heads bobbed in the shadows as we walked south, crossed some railway tracks, slid down a steep bank, and strode out onto the frozen canal.
Parked in the ice channel was a large wooden contraption that looked as if a sailboat had collided with a horse sleigh. It was an iceboat. All my life I had seen them dashing across Toronto’s harbour at incredible speeds. My father had told me that with the right wind they were the fastest vehicles on earth. They certainly seemed to crash more than any other vehicles on earth. In the wintertime the newspapers were full of stories about races and crashes. Many people were injured every year. Sometimes someone even died.
“This is the Marinion,” Tommy said. “Want to take a ride?”
I was scared spitless, but with a shoreline full of Kellys still waiting for me, I said, “Love to.”
“Climb aboard,” Tommy urged.
“Where?” I asked.
“Up here,” Ed said, indicating a tiny triangular-shaped platform at the rear end of the boat.
“Can all three of us fit up there?”
“Are you kidding?” Ed said. “On a race day there’s five or more onboard.”
“You guys race?” I asked as I climbed into the box.
“Yep,” Tommy said. “Hang on!”
I felt the back end of the boat lift as Tommy and Ed picked up the vessel and flipped the rear runner so that a metal skate faced down onto the ice. Then they climbed aboard and began yanking ropes and spinning pulleys. A sail rose suddenly like a shark fin, and when the wind caught it, the boat started to move. We sailed out of the water channel and into the main harbour.
The Marinion increased speed rapidly until we were going as fast as a galloping horse. In the moonlight I thought I could see some shadowy Kellys riding double and triple on bicycles racing along the eastern shore in a vain attempt to keep up with us, but they were soon left behind.
Wind whistled in the rigging overhead, and the blades on the ice made a dull, roaring sound as the boat glided along. We were sailing southeast toward the Toronto Islands. The islands were actually a collection of sandbars that protected Toronto’s harbour from the big waves of Lake Ontario. Some people, like Tommy, lived on the islands year-long, but mostly they were deserted in the winter. It was because of the islands that Toronto’s harbour froze over, forming a perfect iceboat racetrack.
Sometimes the ride on the boat was so smooth I thought we had come to a halt except that objects on the ice suddenly whizzed past as if they had been fired out of a cannon. Other times we’d hit some rough ice and I’d feel my teeth rattle