“I hope Ben sees it himself,” said Dusty. “He’ll know what some boys thinks of him.”
“And we ain’t the only ones that think that way, either,” added another member of the group.
“You bet we ain’t!” exclaimed still another. “I know lots o’ fellows that’s got no use for him at all.”
It was very true that Benjamin Barriscale, Jr., was not especially popular with boys of his age. He was the only son of the wealthiest man in the city; he appreciated that fact, and was self-important accordingly. He was not offensively aristocratic or domineering, but he was unsocial, undemocratic, uncompanionable. He had his own group of friends, boys who followed him and flattered him, but he never seemed to inspire a spirit of true comradeship in any one.
Having at last finished the work in hand the Hallowe’en mischief-makers again faced toward the street, prepared now to follow the friendly advice of the down-town policeman.
But Slicker, with a low whistle, brought them to a sudden halt.
“We forgot somethin’,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“What?” was the unanimous inquiry.
“We ain’t takin’ anything away. We got to take as much as we bring. ’Twouldn’t be fair to the rest o’ the places we visited if we didn’t do anything here but just leave a sign on a gate-post.”