Maybe I would go with them, but more often, before we reached the gate, the delight of my society would be claimed by a rival troop.
“He's coming with us this afternoon. He promised.”
“No, he didn't.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Well, he ain't, anyhow. See?”
“Oh, isn't he? Who says he isn't?”
“I do.”
“Punch his head, Dick!”
“Yes, you do, Jimmy Blake, and I'll punch yours. Come, Kelver.”
I might have been some Queen of Beauty offered as prize for knightly contest. Indeed, more than once the argument concluded thus primitively, I being carried off in triumph by the victorious party.