A hot wave swept over him. Whatever she did, he must stand by her now, make life for her better, not worse. Yet how could he do it? Open interference between her and Barney would be disastrous.
Still questioning anxiously of himself he rang the bell; once, twice, and a third time. No one answered, and after a wait and another ring he went back to the playground, and found a noisy, chaotic scene.
Redtop was manager. He had planned a rally in imitation of the campaign meetings of real politics. There would be speeches, and the candidates for the playground officers would be presented. There could be no rules, of course, as if in a room, but three boys were appointed to keep order, Billy being one. And everybody was welcome.
Apparently the cityful had arrived before Billy. As he approached, Redtop, perspiring and anxious, called, “Billy Next Week, come on! Get busy! Hold down those kids, will you? This meeting’s got a football game skinned silly on noise.”
“All right,” Billy responded cheerfully. “Shall I scare ’em or run ’em in?”
“Oh, anything. Cop ’em or duck ’em. Here! Take this.” He pinned a badge of authority on Billy’s coat.
Billy started through the wriggling, shifting mass of boys of many nationalities from fair-faced Swede to swarthy Italian and garrulous Irish boy, with quiet, squat Japanese fringing the edges.
“The cop’s coming!” ran derisively from lip to lip along the crowd, which curved back at his approach, only to close in behind him with more and more noise.
“Say! Fellers!” Billy wheeled and called to the nearest, “What’s the matter of helping here and getting the taffy a little later?”
“Sure, Mike,” cried some. And others asked, “Where’s the taffy?”