Then The Rat moved sharply and turned to look at him.

“I thought you weren’t coming at all!” he snapped and growled at once.  “My father said you wouldn’t.  He said you were a young swell for all your patched clothes.  He said your father would think he was a swell, even if he was only a penny-a-liner on newspapers, and he wouldn’t let you have anything to do with a vagabond and a nuisance.  Nobody begged you to join.  Your father can go to blazes!”

“Don’t you speak in that way about my father,” said Marco, quite quietly, “because I can’t knock you down.”

“I’ll get up and let you!” began The Rat, immediately white and raging.  “I can stand up with two sticks.  I’ll get up and let you!”

“No, you won’t,” said Marco.  “If you want to know what my father said, I can tell you.  He said I could come as often as I liked—­till I found out whether we should be friends or not.  He says I shall find that out for myself.”

It was a strange thing The Rat did.  It must always be remembered of him that his wretched father, who had each year sunk lower and lower in the under-world, had been a gentleman once, a man who had been familiar with good manners and had been educated in the customs of good breeding.  Sometimes when he was drunk, and sometimes when he was partly sober, he talked to The Rat of many things the boy would otherwise never have heard of.  That was why the lad was different from the other vagabonds.  This, also, was why he suddenly altered the whole situation by doing this strange and unexpected thing.  He utterly changed his expression and voice, fixing his sharp eyes shrewdly on Marco’s.  It was almost as if he were asking him a conundrum.  He knew it would have been one to most boys of the class he appeared outwardly to belong to.  He would either know the answer or he wouldn’t.

“I beg your pardon,” The Rat said.

That was the conundrum.  It was what a gentleman and an officer would have said, if he felt he had been mistaken or rude.  He had heard that from his drunken father.

“I beg yours—­for being late,” said Marco.

That was the right answer.  It was the one another officer and gentleman would have made.  It settled the matter at once, and it settled more than was apparent at the moment.  It decided that Marco was one of those who knew the things The Rat’s father had once known—­the things gentlemen do and say and think.  Not another word was said.  It was all right.  Marco slipped into line with the Squad, and The Rat sat erect with his military bearing and began his drill: 

“Squad!

“’Tention!

“Number!

“Slope arms!

“Form fours!

“Right!

“Quick march!

“Halt!

“Left turn!

“Order arms!

“Stand at ease!

“Stand easy!”

They did it so well that it was quite wonderful when one considered the limited space at their disposal.  They had evidently done it often, and The Rat had been not only a smart, but a severe, officer.  This morning they repeated the exercise a number of times, and even varied it with Review Drill, with which they seemed just as familiar.