"All right!" he shouted presently, and dropped his ragged-sleeved arm and sat up straight again.
"I want to go to war!" he said hoarsely. "I want to fight! I want to lead a lot of men into battle! And I haven't got any legs. Sometimes it takes the pluck out of me."
"You've not grown up yet!" said Marco. "You might get strong. No one knows what is going to happen. How did you learn to drill the club?"
"I hang about barracks. I watch and listen. I follow soldiers. If I could get books, I'd read about wars. I can't go to libraries as you can. I can do nothing but scuffle about like a rat."
"I can take you to some libraries," said Marco. "There are places where boys can get in. And I can get some papers from my father."
"Can you?" said The Rat. "Do you want to join the club?"
"Yes!" Marco answered. "I'll speak to my father about it."
He said it because the hungry longing for companionship in his own mind had found a sort of response in the queer hungry look in The Rat's eyes. He wanted to see him again. Strange creature as he was, there was attraction in him. Scuffling about on his low wheeled platform, he had drawn this group of rough lads to him and made himself their commander. They obeyed him; they listened to his stories and harangues about war and soldiering; they let him drill them and give them orders. Marco knew that, when he told his father about him, he would be interested. The boy wanted to hear what Loristan would say.
"I'm going home now," he said. "If you're going to be here to-morrow, I will try to come."
"We shall be here," The Rat answered. "It's our barracks."