I escaped, and went in search of the commodious playground, which I supposed to lie in the rear of the house; but, reaching a back yard, I suddenly found myself face to face with three small boys, one staggering with the weight of a pail, the two others bearing a full washtub between them; and with surprise saw them set down their burdens at a distance and come tip-toeing towards me in a single file, with theatrical gestures of secrecy.
"Hallo!" said I.
"Hist! Be dark as the grave!" answered the leader, in a stage-whisper. He was a freckly, narrow-chested child, and needed washing. "You're the new boy," he announced, as though he had tracked me down in that criminal secret.
"Yes," I owned. "Who are you?"
"We are the Blood-stained Brotherhood of the Pampas, now upon the trail!"
"Look here," said I, staring down at him, "that's nonsense!"
"Oh, very well," he answered promptly; "then we're the 'Backward Sons of Gentlemen'—that's down in the prospectus—and we're fetching water for Mother Stimcoe, because the turncock cut off the company's water this morning! See? But you won't blow the gaff on the old girl, will you?"
"Are you all there is, you three?" I asked, after considering them a moment.
"We're all the boarders. My name's Ted Bates—they call me Doggy Bates—and my father's a captain out in India; and these are Bob Pilkington and Scotty Maclean. You may call him Redhead, being too big to punch; and, talking of that, you'll have to fight Bully Stokes."
"Is he a day-boy?" I asked.