“Wisht they would!” some one yelled.

“It would be a queer secret to know all the time when no one else knew it,” The Rat communed with himself as it were, “that you were a king and you ought to be on a throne wearing a crown.  I wonder if it would make a chap look different?”

He laughed his squeaky laugh, and then turned in his sudden way to Marco: 

“But he’d be a fool to give up the vengeance.  What is your name?”

“Marco Loristan.  What’s yours?  It isn’t The Rat really.”

“It’s Jem Ratcliffe.  That’s pretty near.  Where do you live?”

“No. 7 Philibert Place.”

“This club is a soldiers’ club,” said The Rat.  “It’s called the Squad.  I’m the captain.  ’Tention, you fellows!  Let’s show him.”

The semicircle sprang to its feet.  There were about twelve lads altogether, and, when they stood upright, Marco saw at once that for some reason they were accustomed to obeying the word of command with military precision.

“Form in line!” ordered The Rat.

They did it at once, and held their backs and legs straight and their heads up amazingly well.  Each had seized one of the sticks which had been stacked together like guns.

The Rat himself sat up straight on his platform.  There was actually something military in the bearing of his lean body.  His voice lost its squeak and its sharpness became commanding.

He put the dozen lads through the drill as if he had been a smart young officer.  And the drill itself was prompt and smart enough to have done credit to practiced soldiers in barracks.  It made Marco involuntarily stand very straight himself, and watch with surprised interest.

“That’s good!” he exclaimed when it was at an end.  “How did you learn that?”

The Rat made a savage gesture.

“If I’d had legs to stand on, I’d have been a soldier!” he said.  “I’d have enlisted in any regiment that would take me.  I don’t care for anything else.”

Suddenly his face changed, and he shouted a command to his followers.

“Turn your backs!” he ordered.

And they did turn their backs and looked through the railings of the old churchyard.  Marco saw that they were obeying an order which was not new to them.  The Rat had thrown his arm up over his eyes and covered them.  He held it there for several moments, as if he did not want to be seen.  Marco turned his back as the rest had done.  All at once he understood that, though The Rat was not crying, yet he was feeling something which another boy would possibly have broken down under.

“All right!” he shouted presently, and dropped his ragged-sleeved arm and sat up straight again.

“I want to go to war!” he said hoarsely.  “I want to fight!  I want to lead a lot of men into battle!  And I haven’t got any legs.  Sometimes it takes the pluck out of me.”

“You’ve not grown up yet!” said Marco.  “You might get strong.”