“Don’t make any noise,” he said.  “I want you to listen to me.”

“Oh, it ’s you, is it?” Simpson replied, with such obvious relief in his voice as to make them feel relieved also.  “Wot d’ ye want here?”

“We want to get out of here,” Joe said, “and the shortest way ’s the best.  There ’s three of us, and you ’re only one—­”

“That ’s all right, that ’s all right,” the gang-leader interrupted.  “I ‘d just as soon show you the way out as not.  I ain’t got nothin’ ‘gainst you.  Come on an’ follow me, an’ don’t step to the side, an’ I ’ll have you out in no time.”

Several minutes later they dropped from the top of a high fence into a dark alley.

“Follow this to the street,” Simpson directed; “turn to the right two blocks, turn to the right again for three, an’ yer on Union.  Tra-la-loo.”

They said good-by, and as they started down the alley received the following advice: 

“Nex’ time you bring kites along, you ’d best leave ’em to home.”

CHAPTER V

HOME AGAIN

Following Brick Simpson’s directions, they came into Union Street, and without further mishap gained the Hill.  From the brow they looked down into the Pit, whence arose that steady, indefinable hum which comes from crowded human places.

“I ’ll never go down there again, not as long as I live,” Fred said with a great deal of savagery in his voice.  “I wonder what became of the fireman.”

“We ’re lucky to get back with whole skins,” Joe cheered them philosophically.

“I guess we left our share, and you more than yours,” laughed Charley.

“Yes,” Joe answered.  “And I ’ve got more trouble to face when I get home.  Good night, fellows.”

As he expected, the door on the side porch was locked, and he went around to the dining-room and entered like a burglar through a window.  As he crossed the wide hall, walking softly toward the stairs, his father came out of the library.  The surprise was mutual, and each halted aghast.

Joe felt a hysterical desire to laugh, for he thought that he knew precisely how he looked.  In reality he looked far worse than he imagined.  What Mr. Bronson saw was a boy with hat and coat covered with dirt, his whole face smeared with the stains of conflict, and, in particular, a badly swollen nose, a bruised eyebrow, a cut and swollen lip, a scratched cheek, knuckles still bleeding, and a shirt torn open from throat to waist.

“What does this mean, sir?” Mr. Bronson finally managed to articulate.

Joe stood speechless.  How could he tell, in one brief sentence, all the whole night’s happenings?—­for all that must be included in the explanation of what his luckless disarray meant.

“Have you lost your tongue?” Mr. Bronson demanded with an appearance of impatience.

“I ’ve—­I ’ve—­”

“Yes, yes,” his father encouraged.