The Cruise of the Dazzler | Page 7

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.
"'Cos I say so," Simpson replied. "An' wot I say goes. Understand?"
But Joe did not understand. He refused to understand that Brick
Simpson's word was law in San Francisco, or any part of San Francisco.
His love of honesty and right dealing was offended, and all his fighting
blood was up.
"You give those kites to me, right here and now," he threatened,
reaching out his hand for them.
But Simpson jerked them away. "D' ye know who I am?" he demanded.
"I 'm Brick Simpson, an' I don't 'low no one to talk to me in that tone of
voice."
"Better leave him alone," Charley whispered in Joe's ear. "What are a
few kites? Leave him alone and let 's get out of this."
"They 're my kites," Joe said slowly in a dogged manner. "They 're my
kites, and I 'm going to have them."
"You can't fight the crowd," Fred interfered; "and if you do get the best
of him they 'll all pile on you."
The gang, observing this whispered colloquy, and mistaking it for
hesitancy on the part of Joe, set up its wolf-like howling again.
"Afraid! afraid!" the young roughs jeered and taunted. "He 's too
high-toned, he is! Mebbe he 'll spoil his nice clean shirt, and then what
'll mama say?"
"Shut up!" their leader snapped authoritatively, and the noise
obediently died away.
"Will you give me those kites?" Joe demanded, advancing

determinedly.
"Will you fight for 'em?" was Simpson's counter-demand.
"Yes," Joe answered.
"Fight! fight!" the gang began to howl again.
"And it 's me that 'll see fair play," said a man's heavy voice.
All eyes were instantly turned upon the man who had approached
unseen and made this announcement. By the electric light, shining
brightly on them from the corner, they made him out to be a big,
muscular fellow, clad in a working-man's garments. His feet were
incased in heavy brogans, a narrow strap of black leather held his
overalls about his waist, and a black and greasy cap was on his head.
His face was grimed with coal-dust, and a coarse blue shirt, open at the
neck, revealed a wide throat and massive chest.
"An' who 're you?" Simpson