It was very dark under the dense old elms. Just over his head Peter saw a narrow strip of sky and some faint, twinkling stars. Then he heard steps and whispers in the garden. Holding his stick tight and feeling quite revived, he crept behind a scraggy tree trunk.
The old fence creaked and suddenly several boys came jumping over the ditch beside Peter. He got hold of the nearest whilst the others disappeared quick as lightning in the dark. Aha! Apple thieves! The boy had his pockets full of unripe fruit.
“Damned rascal!” roared Peter. “You damned rascal! I’ll give you something for stealing.”
And he struck the writhing figure with his rough stick.
A long, terrible, shrill scream rent the close air. And then Peter suddenly felt the pain of a bite in his arm. He did not let go, but puffing and blowing he dragged the boy with him into the office, where he locked the door and lit the lamp.
“Here nobody will hear if you yell,” he mumbled.
But when Peter came up to the boy again with the stick, he was startled at something in his pale dirty face, distorted with crying:
“Where do you come from?” he mumbled.
“Majängen.”
“Who are your parents?”