His importance soon forsook him, for presently upon him pounced two young highwaymen demanding the cause of his importance. Joshua stood in his path, fists on hips, and Lester threatened him on his right.
“What ye got, Dawson?” demanded Joshua.
Slinky Dawson’s freckled face grew paler than it was ordinarily, for Slinky was an unhealthy, boot-licking, soft-spoken bigot, one of those beings doomed for life to be the scorn of less gentle but more red-blooded males.
“I haven’t anything, Joshua,” he replied, a look of fear and guilt in his milk-blue eyes. Slinky Dawson never would have said, “I ain’t got anything,” and he invariably called his schoolmates by their first names. Which proved that he was no man.
“You’re a liar,” Joshua told him smoothly. “Dare ye to take it up!”
Slinky squirmed and his thin lips fluttered. Slinky never took up anything.
“Aw, gi’me that note to our folks, kid,” said Joshua, stepping closer, disgust written on his face. “Don’t monkey with me, boy, er I’ll bust ye wide open! You know me. Gi’me Ole Madmallet’s letter before I smash yeh!”
“I—I— Honest, Joshua—”
Joshua drew back a threatening fist, then slowly brought it forward until it was rubbing Slinky’s nose. “Gonta gi’me it, boy?”
“Ye-yes, sir!” And Slinky reached trembling fingers into his blouse and produced an unsealed envelope. “Honest, Joshua, I couldn’t help it. Mr. Madmallet—”