Frank had ever fancied that, to a certain extent, anarchists were governed by a mistaken and distorted belief that they were patriots whose mission it was to slaughter and destroy the rich and powerful and overturn the existing governments, in order that the poor, the weak and the oppressed might be given a fair and even show in the world.
He had never looked with the slightest favor on anarchy, but he had sometimes felt sympathy for the misguided wretches who believed the cause just.
But he could feel no sympathy for such a creature as Emile Durant, and he wondered that even the anarchists could call such a wretch brother, and accept him as a leader.
The bomb-thrower with Durant understood French, but spoke it imperfectly. It was evident they were conversing in that language so that they might not be understood by those around them.
Frank would have given much to hear what passed, but he could catch only a word now and then.
Then came another surprise for the boy.
Sitting close to the two men, and leaning against the wall, was a man who seemed to be in a drunken slumber.
It was ’Arry ’Awkins!
“Is it possible that he is a greater rascal than I thought, and one of the gang?” was the question Frank put to himself.
A roughly-dressed young fellow came in and looked around. After a time, he sighted Durant and the bomb-thrower. Immediately he approached them.