There is no saying what might not have happened but for the intervention of the red-faced boy, who blurted out his story, and demanded the opening of the door.
"Oh!" said the baker, comprehension dawning on him at last. "But they didn't come in here, mate—they just slammed the door, and then bolted. That's why I thought it was Bill, here, playing jokes on me, and—"
But the red-faced youngster had turned and gazed about him, and the concealment afforded by the wood-pile proved inadequate, for he uttered a yell and his sharp little eyes gleamed. "Here!" he roared. "I see 'em. Come on!"
Billy and Patch had profited by their rest, and were away with the speed of the wind. The others gave instant chase, even the baker joining in. The fugitives realized that it would be a bad move to rush out into the open street, and they doubled on their tracks again, and darted into a grocery store, where they were met at the door by the grocer, in grimy white apron, who had not been favourably impressed by the manner of their entry.
"Ha!" he said. "What do you want?"
"A pound of hoo-jah!" said Patch promptly.
"What?" demanded the grocer in astonishment.
"Some gubbins," added Patch.
"Some—some—"
"Don't you sell it? A pound of doo-hickey."