It is very still, scarey still. The
gas-lamp flaring and flickering among the green maples at the
corner has a strange look to him. His footfalls on the sidewalk
sound so loud he takes the soft middle of the dusty road. He hears
some one pursuing him and his bosom contracts with fear, as he
stands to see who it is. Although he hardly knows the boy bound
on the same errand as his, he takes him to his heart, as a chosen
friend. They are kin.
On the freight-house platform they find other boys. Some of them
have waited up all night so as not to miss it. They are from across
the tracks. They have all the fun, those fellows do. They can
swear and chew tobacco, and play hookey from school and have a good
time. They get to go barefoot before anybody else, and nobody tells
them it will thin their blood to go in swimming so much. Yes, and
they can fight, too. They'd sooner fight than eat. Our boys,
conscious of inferiority, keep to themselves. The boys from across
the tracks show off all the bad words they can think of. One of
them has a mouth-harp which he plays upon, now and then opening his
hands hollowed around the instrument. Patsy Gubbins dances to the
music, which is a thing even more reckless and daredevil than
swearing. Patsy's going with a "troupe" some day. Or else, he's
going to get a job firing on an engine.
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