All welcomed Max cordially, and still more enthusiastically when they had heard him play. And rapidly the two hours of practice passed; as a breath to Sydney, who not only loved to sing, but lived his happiest hours, in this household.
On the way home when the two boys, Max and Sydney, changed cars at a busy junction, they found the second car crowded at the rear end with high school students. They had evidently been somewhere in a body, and were noisy and restless, obstructing the passage way, playing rough pranks, and acting as if they owned the car.
“Move up forward!” the conductor repeated with no effect.
The two edged slowly through, hindered by the wedged mass, and slyly tripped by a hidden foot. All knew Sydney and greeted him by his nickname; but only one spoke to Max.
“Hello, young feller! What are you out of quod for?” sneered that one in his ear.
Max knew him. It was Walter Buckman, who had opened the door to him the night he went to pay for his stolen supper. As Max, trying to obey the conductor, pressed forward, one, instigated by Walter, pushed Sydney aside and jerked Max against a lady so adroitly that it seemed entirely Max’s fault.
He righted himself, apologizing earnestly. But he had torn her dress and she was not very gracious.
“Aw, you have to excuse a drunken man, lady,” a noisy one called out, and again began the pushing and scuffling.
“Move up front there or I’ll put you off!” the conductor ordered more sternly.
“I’d like to see you do it!” one of the bolder threatened.