Frank laughed.
“My dear fellow, you can’t catch a Yankee lad with taffy. I have no money to throw away. Look for some other sucker.”
Then he wheeled about sharply and moved away.
A clown on stilts strode along and stepped over Frank’s shoulder. In a little open space a man was allowing anybody to break stones on his chest with a sledge hammer. There were minstrels of all nationalities, who were singing songs. Yellow-haired girls on stilts found their way about, and sang to the people on the coaches. Beggars were there, and hungry men fought in the dirt for the chicken bones that fell from a plate; exhausted boys and drunken men, who were sleeping under the very feet of the crowd.
And then, in the midst of the crowd, Frank felt something thrust into his hand. It was a slip of paper, and something was written on it. He looked at the writing, and this is what he read:
“You are marked. You are followed. Return to your coach. You are in deadly danger here. Beware of the man with the death-cold hand. It is the grip of doom.”
Frank looked around swiftly, catching a glimpse of ’Arry ’Awkins in the swaying crowd. The hot blood leaped to the boy’s face.
“So it is that fellow who is following me,” he thought. “I might have known it.”
Quickly thrusting the warning note into his pocket, he started to force his way through the crowd toward Mr. ’Awkins.
Then there was a sudden commotion, a swaying and shouting, and Frank found himself crowded and hustled. In the midst of all this commotion something cold and clammy, like the hand of a dead man, fastened on his wrist. It gave him a shock. He tried to twist away, but the fingers were like iron bands. Something told him that he was in truth in great danger.