Away at the end Ned and Hal proudly held their torches as high as they could, and tried to keep step with the men in front of them. Theirs was the most uncomfortable station in the line. All the dust, and the soot and reek from the kerosene drifted back to enfold them; the red fire was burned out before they arrived, and likewise the spectators had done their cheering and were taking short cuts to other points. Worse than all this, as the rear of the procession filed by the onlookers crowded in behind it, and fairly stepped on the heels of the two boys.
The parade was now about to traverse a section of South Beaufort—and Ned and Hal, realizing that they were nearing the enemy’s country, grew a little nervous. It was at no little risk that a boy from Beaufort proper crossed the dead-line into South Beaufort—the lurking place of the Conners, and “Slim” and “Fat” Sullivan, and Luke McCoy, and “Big” Mike Farr and “Loppy” Lynch, and the rest of the “gang”!
However, it was too late to back out. The rear guard must hold its post.
Hardly had the tail of the procession passed over the South Beaufort threshold, when rose the jeering cry:
“The kids! Say, catch on to the kids hangin’ on behind!”
A lump of dirt slapped against Ned’s oilcloth cape. Another knocked Hal’s cap askew. Small lads and girls pressed close upon them and threatened and mocked, while big brothers and sisters in the background encouraged.
The two boys pretended not to notice, but looked straight ahead while earnestly wishing that they were again in their own district.
But the worst was coming.
The nagging urchins, urged on from all sides, waxed bolder, and began to jerk at the boys’ capes, so that both were being compelled to struggle along like engines towing a line of cars.
This was getting to be too much.