"It is him," I said dramatically.
"I thought so," said Grubbs, and cleared his throat. "Norman," he cried. "Kid—Norman."
The young rascal, who was sitting on top of a post, more like a Puck than ever, swiveled about and solemnly winked one eye. "Do I understand that the ban of silence is lifted?" he said from behind the mumps bandage.
Grubbs considered, and then made a tactful and instantaneous decision. (Small wonder that a few years later he was entrusted with a war mission to Washington, of the utmost delicacy.)
"You've had your revenge," he said, "and the joke is on us. Call your mob off, will you?"
"You're quite sure you wouldn't like us to encourage the remainder for a change?"
"Quite sure."
"So be it, my captain."
He blew a whistle through his fingers, and in a moment the fence was denuded of mortals like a tree smitten by an autumn gale. The Blower of Bubbles removed his bandage, and presented a stocky youth with three shillings.
"Buy sweets for the crowd," he said, "and mind—play fair."