A little later, K., coming up the Street as he had that first day, heard the barytone singing:—
“Home is the hunter, home from the hill,
And the sailor, home from sea.”
Home! Why, this WAS home. The Street seemed to stretch out its arms to him. The ailanthus tree waved in the sunlight before the little house. Tree and house were old; September had touched them. Christine sat sewing on the balcony. A boy with a piece of chalk was writing something on the new cement under the tree. He stood back, head on one side, when he had finished, and inspected his work. K. caught him up from behind, and, swinging him around—
“Hey!” he said severely. “Don't you know better than to write all over the street? What'll I do to you? Give you to a policeman?”
“Aw, lemme down, Mr. K.”
“You tell the boys that if I find this street scrawled over any more, the picnic's off.”
“Aw, Mr. K.!”
“I mean it. Go and spend some of that chalk energy of yours in school.”
He put the boy down. There was a certain tenderness in his hands, as in his voice, when he dealt with children. All his severity did not conceal it. “Get along with you, Bill. Last bell's rung.”
As the boy ran off, K.'s eye fell on what he had written on the cement. At a certain part of his career, the child of such a neighborhood as the Street “cancels” names. It is a part of his birthright. He does it as he whittles his school desk or tries to smoke the long dried fruit of the Indian cigar tree. So K. read in chalk an the smooth street:—