Billy surveyed him contemptuously.
“Say, what’s your name, anyhow?” he queried, after a moment.
“Alphonse Napoleon Tascherean.”
“Well, what do you think of that Kamrahn Bay matter?” continued Billy, curious to know the boy’s views; but Alphonse only shrugged expressive shoulders and smiled a little, subtle, sneering smile.
“D’ye remember how Taro licked you last fall?”
The French boy turned darkly red. His hands were in his pocket, and one of them suddenly flashed out. He had a knife.
“I no longer am afraid of heem,” he said, contemptuously. “I will cut him up—so! if he touch me once again!”
“You will?” cried Billy. “You think we’re afraid of your old knife? Get it, Taro.”
Taro did get it, though he had a scratch on his hand to show how dangerous the undertaking was. Then the French boy’s assured manner vanished as if by magic. Quite piteously he began to cry. At the top of his voice he shouted aloud for “Pa-pa! Pa-pa!”
“We’re not going to hurt you after all,” said Billy, after a moment. “We’ll make you do something you’ll remember. Taro, help me tie his hands first.”