Manual The Adventures of Pony Boy, Book 3, Pony Goes To The Academy

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They are starting school for horses. Read more Read less. Chance to win daily prizes. Get ready for Prime Day with the Amazon App. No purchase necessary. Get started. Kindle Cloud Reader Read instantly in your browser. Not Enabled. No customer reviews. Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a customer review. I don't use my head. They walked around slowly, silently, smiling. We're gonna cut all that long greasy hair off. I can still see it. Blue madras. One of them laughed, then cussed me out in a low voice.

I couldn't think of anything to say. There just isn't a whole lot you can say while waiting to get mugged, so I kept my mouth shut. I finally thought of something to say. Of course I backed right into one of them. They had me down in a second. They had my arms and legs pinned down and one of them was sitting on my chest with his knees on my elbows, and if you don't think that hurts, you're crazy.

I could smell English Leather shaving lotion and stale tobacco, and I wondered foolishly if I would suffocate before they did anything. I was scared so bad I was wishing I would. I fought to get loose, and almost did for a second; then they tightened up on me and the one on my chest slugged me a couple of times.

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So I lay still, swearing at them between gasps. A blade was held against my throat. I went wild. I started screaming for Soda, Darry, anyone. Someone put his hand over my mouth, and I bit it as hard as I could, tasting the blood running through my teeth. I heard a muttered curse and got slugged again, and they were stuffing a handkerchief in my mouth. One of them kept saying, "Shut him up, for Pete's sake, shut him up! I lay there and wondered what in the world was happening--people were jumping over me and running by me and I was too dazed to figure it out.

Then someone had me under the armpits and was hauling me to my feet. It was Darry. I was dizzy enough anyway. I could tell it was Darry though--partly because of the voice and partly because Darry's always rough with me without meaning to be. Quit shaking me, Darry, I'm okay. Darry isn't ever sorry for anything he does. It seems funny to me that he should look just exactly like my father and act exactly the opposite from him.

My father was only forty when he died and he looked twenty-five and a lot of people thought Darry and Dad were brothers instead of father and son. But they only looked alike--my father was never rough with anyone without meaning to be. Darry is six-feet-two, and broad-shouldered and muscular. He has dark-brown hair that kicks out in front and a slight cowlick in the back--just like Dad's--but Darry's eyes are his own.

He's got eyes that are like two pieces of pale blue-green ice. They've got a determined set to them, like the rest of him. He looks older than twenty--tough, cool, and smart. He would be real handsome if his eyes weren't so cold. He doesn't understand anything that is not plain hard fact.

But he uses his head. I sat down again, rubbing my cheek where I'd been slugged the most. Darry jammed his fists in his pockets. I was smarting and aching and my chest was sore and I was so nervous my hands were shaking and I wanted to start bawling, but you just don't say that to Darry. By then I had figured that all the noise I had heard was the gang coming to rescue me. He dropped down beside me, examining my head. Not like Darry--Soda's movie-star kind of handsome, the kind that people stop on the street to watch go by. He's not as tall as Darry, and he's a little slimmer, but he has a finely drawn, sensitive face that somehow manages to be reckless and thoughtful at the same time.

He's got dark-gold hair that he combs back--long and silky and straight--and in the summer the sun bleaches it to a shining wheat-gold. His eyes are dark brown--lively, dancing, recklessly laughing eyes that can be gentle and sympathetic one moment and blazing with anger the next.

He has Dad's eyes, but Soda is one of a kind. He can get drunk in a drag race or dancing without ever getting near alcohol. In our neighborhood it's rare to find a kid who doesn't drink once in a while. But Soda never touches a drop--he doesn't need to. He gets drunk on just plain living. And he understands everybody. He looked at me more closely. I looked away hurriedly, because, if you want to know the truth, I was starting to bawl. I knew I was as white as I felt and I was shaking like a leaf. Soda just put his hand on my shoulder. They ain't gonna hurt you no more.

I brushed them away impatiently. You just don't cry in front of Darry. Not unless you're hurt like Johnny had been that day we found him in the vacant lot. Compared to Johnny I wasn't hurt at all. Soda rubbed my hair. I guess it's because he's always grinning so much himself.

Sodapop isn't afraid of him like everyone else and enjoys teasing him. I'd just as soon tease a full-grown grizzly; but for some reason, Darry seems to like being teased by Soda. Our gang had chased the Socs to their car and heaved rocks at them. They came running toward us now--four lean, hard guys. They were all as tough as nails and looked it. I had grown up with them, and they accepted me, even though I was younger, because I was Darry and Soda's kid brother and I kept my mouth shut good. Steve Randle was seventeen, tall and lean, with thick greasy hair he kept combed in complicated swirls.

He was cocky, smart, and Soda's best buddy since grade school. Steve's specialty was cars. He could lift a hubcap quicker and more quietly than anyone in the neighborhood, but he also knew cars upside-down and backward, and he could drive anything on wheels. He and Soda worked at the same gas station--Steve part time and Soda full time--and their station got more customers than any other in town.

Whether that was because Steve was so good with cars or because Soda attracted girls like honey draws flies, I couldn't tell you. I liked Steve only because he was Soda's best friend. He didn't like me--he thought I was a tagalong and a kid; Soda always took me with them when they went places if they weren't taking girls, and that bugged Steve. It wasn't my fault; Soda always asked me, I didn't ask him. Soda doesn't think I'm a kid. Two-Bit Mathews was the oldest of the gang and the wisecracker of the bunch. He was about six feet tall, stocky in build, and very proud of his long rusty-colored sideburns.

He had gray eyes and a wide grin, and he couldn't stop making funny remarks to save his life. You couldn't shut up that guy; he always had to get his two-bits worth in. Hence his name. Even his teachers forgot his real name was Keith, and we hardly remembered he had one. Life was one big joke to Two-Bit. He was famous for shoplifting and his black-handled switchblade which he couldn't have acquired without his first talent , and he was always smarting off to the cops.

He really couldn't help it. Everything he said was so irresistibly funny that he just had to let the police in on it to brighten up their dull lives.

The Adventures of Pony Boy, Book 3, Pony Goes To The Academy

That's the way he explained it to me. He liked fights, blondes, and for some unfathomable reason, school. He was still a junior at eighteen and a half and he never learned anything. He just went for kicks. I liked him real well because he kept us laughing at ourselves as well as at other things. He reminded me of Will Rogers--maybe it was the grin.

If I had to pick the real character of the gang, it would be Dallas Winston--Dally. I used to like to draw his picture when he was in a dangerous mood, for then I could get his personality down in a few lines. He had an elfish face, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, small, sharp animal teeth, and ears like a lynx. His hair was almost white it was so blond, and he didn't like haircuts, or hair oil either, so it fell over his forehead in wisps and kicked out in the back in tufts and curled behind his ears and along the nape of his neck.

His eyes were blue, blazing ice, cold with a hatred of the whole world. Dally had spent three years on the wild side of New York and had been arrested at the age of ten. He was tougher than the rest of us--tougher, colder, meaner. The shade of difference that separates a greaser from a hood wasn't present in Dally. He was as wild as the boys in the downtown outfits, like Tim Shepard's gang.

In New York, Dally blew off steam in gang fights, but here, organized gangs are rarities--there are just small bunches of friends who stick together, and the warfare is between the social classes. A rumble, when it's called, is usually born of a grudge fight, and the opponents just happen to bring their friends along. Oh, there are a few named gangs around, like the River Kings and the Tiber Street Tigers, but here in the Southwest there's no gang rivalry. So Dally, even though he could get into a good fight sometimes, had no specific thing to hate. No rival gang. Only Socs. And you can't win against them no matter how hard you try, because they've got all the breaks and even whipping them isn't going to change that fact.

Maybe that was why Dallas was so bitter. He had quite a reputation. They have a file on him down at the police station. He had been arrested, he got drunk, he rode in rodeos, lied, cheated, stole, rolled drunks, jumped small kids--he did everything. I didn't like him, but he was smart and you had to respect him. Johnny Cade was last and least.

If you can picture a little dark puppy that has been kicked too many times and is lost in a crowd of strangers, you'll have Johnny. He was the youngest, next to me, smaller than the rest, with a slight build. He had big black eyes in a dark tanned face; his hair was jet-black and heavily greased and combed to the side, but it was so long that it fell in shaggy bangs across his forehead.

He had a nervous, suspicious look in his eyes, and that beating he got from the Socs didn't help matters. He was the gang's pet, everyone's kid brother. His father was always beating him up, and his mother ignored him, except when she was hacked off at something, and then you could hear her yelling at him clear down at our house.

I think he hated that worse than getting whipped. He would have run away a million times if we hadn't been there. If it hadn't been for the gang, Johnny would never have known what love and affection are. I wiped my eyes hurriedly. They got away this time, the dirty I'm usually pretty quiet around people, even the gang. I changed the subject. Everyone sat down to have a smoke and relax. A smoke always lessens the tension I had quit trembling and my color was back. The cigarette was calming me down. Two-Bit cocked an eyebrow. Makes you look tough. Tough is the same as rough; tuff means cool, sharp--like a tuff-looking Mustang or a tuff record.

In our neighborhood both are compliments. Steve flicked his ashes at me.

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I didn't think You must think at school, with all those good grades you bring home, and you've always got your nose in a book, but do you ever use your head for common sense? No sirree, bub. And if you did have to go by yourself, you should have carried a blade. Me and Darry just didn't dig each other.

I never could please him. He would have hollered at me for carrying a blade if I had carried one. If I was playing football, I should be in studying, and if I was reading, I should be out playing football. He never hollered at Sodapop--not even when Soda dropped out of school or got tickets for speeding.


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He just hollered at me. Soda was glaring at him. It ain't his fault he likes to go to the movies, and it ain't his fault the Socs like to jump us, and if he had been carrying a blade it would have been a good excuse to cut him to ribbons. Darry said impatiently, "When I want my kid brother to tell me what to do with my other kid brother, I'll ask you--kid brother. He always does when Sodapop tells him to. Most of the time. Anybody want to come and hunt some action? I wasn't going to ask if I could come. I mean it.

Sometimes I hate him. Darry sighed, just like I knew he would. Darry never had time to do anything anymore.

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Johnnycake, you and Pony wanta come? I knew Johnny wouldn't open his mouth unless he was forced to. On school nights I could hardly leave the house. His ring, which he had rolled a drunk senior to get, was back on his finger. That little broad was two-timin' me again while I was in jail. They were the only kind of girls that would look at us, I thought. Tough, loud girls who wore too much eye makeup and giggled and swore too much. I liked Soda's girl Sandy just fine, though. Her hair was natural blond and her laugh was soft, like her china-blue eyes.

She didn't have a real good home or anything and was our kind--greaser--but she was a real nice girl. Still, lots of times I wondered what other girls were like. The girls who were bright-eyed, and had their dresses a decent length and acted as if they'd like to spit on us if given a chance. Some were afraid of us, and remembering Dallas Winston, I didn't blame them. But most looked at us like we were dirt--gave us the same kind of look that the Socs did when they came by in their Mustangs and Corvairs and yelled "Grease!

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