“Keep a sharp lookout for the b’ys,” the kite-maker cautioned them.  “They ‘re like to be cruisin’ round after dark.”

“We ’re not afraid,” Charley assured him; “and we know how to take care of ourselves.”

Used to the broad and quiet streets of the Hill, the boys were shocked and stunned by the life that teemed in the close-packed quarter.  It seemed some thick and monstrous growth of vegetation, and that they were wading through it.  They shrank closely together in the tangle of narrow streets as though for protection, conscious of the strangeness of it all, and how unrelated they were to it.

Children and babies sprawled on the sidewalk and under their feet.  Bareheaded and unkempt women gossiped in the doorways or passed back and forth with scant marketings in their arms.  There was a general odor of decaying fruit and fish, a smell of staleness and putridity.  Big hulking men slouched by, and ragged little girls walked gingerly through the confusion with foaming buckets of beer in their hands.  There was a clatter and garble of foreign tongues and brogues, shrill cries, quarrels and wrangles, and the Pit pulsed with a great and steady murmur, like the hum of the human hive that it was.

“Phew!  I ’ll be glad when we ’re out of it,” Fred said.

He spoke in a whisper, and Joe and Charley nodded grimly that they agreed with him.  They were not inclined to speech, and they walked as rapidly as the crowd permitted, with much the same feelings as those of travelers in a dangerous and hostile jungle.

And danger and hostility stalked in the Pit.  The inhabitants seemed to resent the presence of these strangers from the Hill.  Dirty little urchins abused them as they passed, snarling with assumed bravery, and prepared to run away at the first sign of attack.  And still other little urchins formed a noisy parade at the heels of the boys, and grew bolder with increasing numbers.

“Don’t mind them,” Joe cautioned.  “Take no notice, but keep right on.  We ’ll soon be out of it.”

“No; we ’re in for it,” said Fred, in an undertone.  “Look there!”

On the corner they were approaching, four or five boys of about their own age were standing.  The light from a street-lamp fell upon them and disclosed one with vivid red hair.  It could be no other than “Brick” Simpson, the redoubtable leader of a redoubtable gang.  Twice within their memory he had led his gang up the Hill and spread panic and terror among the Hill-dwelling young folk, who fled wildly to their homes, while their fathers and mothers hurriedly telephoned for the police.

At sight of the group on the corner, the rabble at the heels of the three boys melted away on the instant with like manifestations of fear.  This but increased the anxiety of the boys, though they held boldly on their way.

The red-haired boy detached himself from the group, and stepped before them, blocking their path.  They essayed to go around him, but he stretched out his arm.