“Come on! come on!”
With a wild whoop, they rushed after the man. They reached him, danced around him, pulled his coat tails, jostled him, crushed his hat over his eyes.
“Give the old duffer fits!” cried the leader, who was a tough young thug of about eighteen.
There were seven boys in the gang, and four or five others came up on the run, eager to have a hand in the “racket.”
The old actor pushed his hat back from his eyes, folded his arms over his out-thrown breast and gazed with his red, sunken eyes at the leader. As if declaiming on the stage he spoke:
“‘You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am armed so strong in honesty
That they pass me by as the idle wind,
Which I respect not.’”
This caused the boys to shout with laughter.
“Git onter ther guy!”
“What ails him?”
“He’s locoed.”