There was but one who knew of their existence, but one who frequented my window, but one capable of the gymnastic effort to procure them, and that was—­I blush to say it—­Melons.  Melons the depredator—­Melons, despoiled by larger boys of his ill-gotten booty, or reckless and indiscreetly liberal; Melons—­now a fugitive on some neighboring house-top.  I lit a cigar, and, drawing my chair to the window, sought surcease of sorrow in the contemplation of the fish-geranium.  In a few moments something white passed my window at about the level of the edge.  There was no mistaking that hoary head, which now represented to me only aged iniquity.  It was Melons, that venerable, juvenile hypocrite.

He affected not to observe me, and would have withdrawn quietly, but that horrible fascination which causes the murderer to revisit the scene of his crime, impelled him toward my window.  I smoked calmly and gazed at him without speaking.  He walked several times up and down the court with a half-rigid, half-belligerent expression of eye and shoulder, intended to represent the carelessness of innocence.

Once or twice he stopped, and putting his arms their whole length into his capacious trousers, gazed with some interest at the additional width they thus acquired.  Then he whistled.  The singular conflicting conditions of John Brown’s body and soul we’re at that time beginning to attract the attention of youth, and Melons’s performance of that melody was always remarkable.  But to-day he whistled falsely and shrilly between his teeth.  At last he met my eye.  He winced slightly, but recovered himself, and going to the fence, stood for a few moments on his hands, with his bare feet quivering in the air.  Then he turned toward me and threw out a conversational preliminary.

“They is a cirkis”—­said Melons gravely, hanging with his back to the fence and his arms twisted around the palings—­“a cirkis over yonder!”—­indicating the locality with his foot—­“with hosses, and hossback riders.  They is a man wot rides six hosses to onct—­six hosses to onct—­and nary saddle”—­and he paused in expectation.

Even this equestrian novelty did not affect me.  I still kept a fixed gaze on Melons’s eye, and he began to tremble and visibly shrink in his capacious garment.  Some other desperate means—­conversation with Melons was always a desperate means—­must be resorted to.  He recommenced more artfully.

“Do you know Carrots?”

I had a faint remembrance of a boy of that euphonious name, with scarlet hair, who was a playmate and persecutor of Melons.  But I said nothing.

“Carrots is a bad boy.  Killed a policeman onct.  Wears a dirk knife in his boots, saw him to-day looking in your windy.”

I felt that this must end here.  I rose sternly and addressed Melons.

“Melons, this is all irrelevant and impertinent to the case.  You took those bananas.  Your proposition regarding Carrots, even if I were inclined to accept it as credible information, does not alter the material issue.  You took those bananas.  The offence under the statutes of California is felony.  How far Carrots may have been accessory to the fact either before or after, is not my intention at present to discuss.  The act is complete.  Your present conduct shows the animo furandi to have been equally clear.”