Once out of the sight of possible watchers from the hotel, he turned off the road that led to his mother’s cousin’s house, and walked purposefully down a side street and thence to another side street.
There they were. He knew they would be there. Boys—boys after William’s own heart—dirty boys, shouting boys, whistling boys, fighting boys. William approached. At his own home he would have been acclaimed at once as leader of any lawless horde. But here he was not known. His present appearance, moreover—brushed hair, evening clothes, clean face—was against him. To them he was a thing taboo. They turned on him with delightful yells of scorn.
“Yah!”
“Where’s yer mammy?”
“Look at ’is shoes! Boo-oo!”
“Isn’t ’is ’air brushed nice?”
“Yah!”
“Boo!”
“Garn!”
The tallest of them snatched William’s cap from his head and ran off with it. The snatching of a boy’s cap from his head is a deadly insult. William, whose one wistful desire was to be friends with his new acquaintances, yet had his dignity to maintain. He flew after the boy and caught him by the back of his neck. Then they closed.