“Kill him!”
Ned, never doubting that they would “kill him” if they caught him, darted down the street, and into an alley, his laughing, whooping pursuers full tilt after him. Over fences, through yards, breathless, desperate, hunted, dodged Ned, and the hue and cry died in the distance. He ventured out upon a street, and slackened to a walk.
Bareheaded, bruised and aching, his trappings in the hands of the enemy, he cared no more for the parade. He went straight home.
As he neared the gate, he saw a figure sitting on the horse-block before it.
“Is that you, Hal?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Hal. “Did they hurt you?”
“No—not much,” asserted Ned, going to the horse-block. “Did they jump on you, too?”
“Yes,” said Hal, with a little sob in his voice. “They grabbed me from behind, and held me, and then somebody hit me, and then they all piled on me—the dirty cowards.”
“So they did on me,” announced Ned, knowing that misery loves company.
“They don’t fight fair!” sobbed Hal. “And they took my cap and cape and torch.”