“Wot yer doin’ here?” he snarled.  “Why don’t yer stay where yer b’long?”

“We ’re just going home,” Fred said mildly.

Brick looked at Joe.  “Wot yer got under yer arm?” he demanded.

Joe contained himself and took no heed of him.  “Come on,” he said to Fred and Charley, at the same time starting to brush past the gang-leader.

But with a quick blow Brick Simpson struck him in the face, and with equal quickness snatched the bundle of kites from under his arm.

Joe uttered an inarticulate cry of rage, and, all caution flung to the winds, sprang at his assailant.

This was evidently a surprise to the gang-leader, who expected least of all to be attacked in his own territory.  He retreated backward, still clutching the kites, and divided between desire to fight and desire to retain his capture.

The latter desire dominated him, and he turned and fled swiftly down the narrow side-street into a labyrinth of streets and alleys.  Joe knew that he was plunging into the wilderness of the enemy’s country, but his sense of both property and pride had been offended, and he took up the pursuit hot-footed.

Fred and Charley followed after, though he outdistanced them, and behind came the three other members of the gang, emitting a whistling call while they ran which was evidently intended for the assembling of the rest of the band.  As the chase proceeded, these whistles were answered from many different directions, and soon a score of dark figures were tagging at the heels of Fred and Charley, who, in turn, were straining every muscle to keep the swifter-footed Joe in sight.

Brick Simpson darted into a vacant lot, aiming for a “slip,” as such things are called which are prearranged passages through fences and over sheds and houses and around dark holes and corners, where the unfamiliar pursuer must go more carefully and where the chances are many that he will soon lose the track.

But Joe caught Brick before he could attain his end, and together they rolled over and over in the dirt, locked in each other’s arms.  By the time Fred and Charley and the gang had come up, they were on their feet, facing each other.

“Wot d’ ye want, eh?” the red-headed gang-leader was saying in a bullying tone.  “Wot d’ ye want?  That ’s wot I wanter know.”

“I want my kites,” Joe answered.

Brick Simpson’s eyes sparkled at the intelligence.  Kites were something he stood in need of himself.

“Then you ’ve got to fight fer ’em,” he announced.

“Why should I fight for them?” Joe demanded indignantly.  “They ’re mine.”  Which went to show how ignorant he was of the ideas of ownership and property rights which obtained among the People of the Pit.

A chorus of jeers and catcalls went up from the gang, which clustered behind its leader like a pack of wolves.

“Why should I fight for them?” Joe reiterated.