THEY RUSHED ALONG THE NEXT
STREET, SHOUTING AND WHISTLING.
He was no longer a little gentleman staying at a select hotel with his family. He was a boy among boys—an outlaw among outlaws once more. He was no longer a pariah. He had proved his valour in fighting and running and whistling. He was almost accepted, not quite. He was alight with exhilaration.
In the next street a watering cart had just passed, and there was a broad muddy stream flowing along the gutter. With a whoop of joy the tribe made for it, ’Erb at the head, closely followed by William.
William’s patent leather shoes began to lose their damning smartness. It was William who began to stamp as he walked, and the rest at once followed suit—splashing, shouting, whistling, jostling, they followed the muddy stream through street after street. At every corner William seemed to shed yet another portion of the nice equipment of the boy-who-is-going-to-a-party. No party would have claimed him now—no hostess greeted him—no housemaid admitted him—he had completely “burned his boats.” But he was happy.
All good things come to an end, however, even a muddy stream in a gutter, and ’Erb, still leader, called out: “Come on, you chaps! Come on, Bill—bells!”
Along both sides of a street they flew at break-neck speed, pulling every bell as they passed. Three enraged householders pursued them. One of them, fleeter than the other two, caught the smallest and slowest of the tribe and began to execute corporal punishment.
It was William who returned, charged from behind, left the householder winded in the gutter, and dragged the yelling scapegoat to the shelter of his tribe.
“Good ole Bill,” said ’Erb, and William’s heart swelled again with pride. Nothing on earth would now have checked his victorious career.
A motor-van passed with another gang of street-urchins hanging on merrily behind. With a yell of battle, William hurled himself upon them, struggled with them in mid-air, and established himself, cheering on his own tribe and pushing off the others.