Four boys were coming down the street in raffish guise; advancing scattered and disorderly, now scampering sideways, chasing, tussling in lewd horseplay with each other, smacking each other with wet towels across the buttocks (they had just come from swimming in Jim Rheinhardt's cow pond in the Cove), filling the quiet street with the intrusions of their raucous voices, taking the sun and joy and singing from the day.
 They slammed yard gates and vaulted fences; they dodged round trees, ducked warily behind telephone poles, chased each other back and forth, gripped briefly, struggling strenuously, showed off to each other, making raucous noises, uttering mirthless gibes. One chased an other around a tree, was deftly tripped, fell sprawling to the roar of their derision, rose red and angry in the face, trying mirthlessly to smile, hurled his wet, wadded towel at the one who tripped him- missed and was derided, picked his towel up, and to save his ugly face and turn derision from him cried out--"Pee-e-nuts!"--loudly passing Pennock's house.
 The boy surveyed them with cold loathing--this was wit!
 They filled that pleasant street with raucous gibes, and they took hope and peace and brightness from the day. They were unwholesome roisterers, they did not move ahead in comradeship, but scampered lewdly, raggedly around, as raucous, hoarse, and mirthless as a gob of phlegm; there was no warmth, no joy or hope or pleasantness in them; they filled the pleasant street with brutal insolence. They came from the west side of town, he knew them instinctively for what they were- the creatures of a joyless insolence, the bearers of the hated names.
 Thus Sidney Purtle, a tall, lean fellow, aged fifteen, and everything about him pale--pale eyes, pale features, pale lank hair, pale eyebrows and a long, pale nose, pale lips and mouth carved always in a pale and ugly sneer, pale hands, pale hair upon his face, pale freckles, and a pale, sneering, and envenomed soul: "Georgeous the Porgeous!" A pale sneer, a palely sneering laugh; and as he spoke the words he smacked outward with his wet and loathsome rag of towel. The boy ducked it and arose.
 Carl Hooton stood surveying him--a brutal, stocky figure, brutal legs outspread, red-skinned, red-handed, and red-eyed, red-eyebrowed, and an inch of brutal brow beneath the flaming thatch of coarse red hair: "Well, as I live and breathe," he sneered (the others smirked appreciation of this flaming wit), "it's little Jocko the Webber, ain't it?"
 "Jockus the Cockus," said Sid Purtle softly, horribly--and smacked the wet towel briefly at the boy's bare leg.
 "Jockus the Cockus--hell!" said Carl Hooton with a sneer, and for a moment more looked at the boy with brutal and derisory contempt.
 "Son, you ain't nothin'," he went on with heavy emphasis, now turning to address his fellows--"Why that little monk-faced squirrel's--they ain't even dropped yet."
 Loud appreciative laughter followed on this sally; the boy stood there flushed, resentful, staring at them, saying nothing. Sid Purtle moved closer to him, his pale eyes narrowed ominously to slits.
 "Is that right, Monkus?" he said, with a hateful and confiding quietness. A burble of unwholesome laughter played briefly in his throat, but he summoned sober features, and said quietly, with men acing demand: "Is that right, or not? Have they fallen yet?"
 "Sid, Sid," whispered Harry Nast, plucking at his companion's sleeve; a snicker of furtive mirth crossed his rat-sharp features. "Let's find out how well he's hung."
 They laughed, and Sidney Purtle said: "Are you hung well, Monkus?" Turning to his comrades, he said gravely, "Shall we find out how much he's got, boys?"
 And suddenly alive with eagerness and mirthful cruelty, they all pressed closer in around the boy, with secret, unclean laughter, saying: "Yes, yes--come on, let's do it! Let's find out how much he's got!"
 "Young Monkus," said Sid Purtle gravely, putting a restraining hand upon his victim's arm, "much as it pains us all, we're goin' to examine you.
 "Let go of me!" The boy wrenched free, turned, whirled, backed up against the tree; the pack pressed closer, leering faces thrusting forward, pale, hateful eyes smeared with the slime of all their foul and secret jubilation. His breath was coming hoarsely, and he said: "I told you to let go of me!"
 "Young Monkus," said Sid Purtle gravely, in a tone of quiet reproof, wherein the dogs of an obscene and jeering mirth were faintly howling--"Young Monkus, we're surprised at you! We had expected you to behave like a little gentleman--to take your medicine like a little man.... Boys!"
 He turned, addressing copemates in a tone of solemn admonition, grave surprise: "It seems the little Monkus is trying to get hard with us. Do you think we should take steps?"
 "Yes, yes," the others eagerly replied, and pressed still closer round the tree.
 And for a moment there was an evil, jubilantly attentive silence as they looked at him, naught but the dry, hard pounding of his heart, his quick, hard breathing, as they looked at him. Then Victor Munson moved forward slowly, his thick, short hand extended, the heavy volutes of his proud, swart nostrils swelling with scorn. And his voice, low-toned and sneering, cajoling with a hateful mockery, came closer to him coaxingly, and said: "Come, Monkus! Come little Monkus! Lie down and take your medicine, little Monk!... Here Jocko! Come Jocko! Here Jocko!
 Come Jocko!--Come and get your peanuts--jock, jock, jock!"
 Then while they joined in hateful laughter, Victor Munson moved forward again, the swart, stub fingers, warted on the back, closed down upon the boy's left arm; and suddenly he drew in his breath in blind, blank horror and in bitter agony, he knew that he must die and never draw his shameful breath in quietude and peace, or have a moment's hope of heartful ease again; something blurred and darkened in blind eyes--he wrenched free from the swart, stub fingers, and he struck.
 The blind blow landed in the thick, swart neck and sent it gurgling backwards. Sharp hatred crossed his vision now, and so enlightened it; he licked his lips and tasted bitterness, and, sobbing in his throat, he started towards the hated face. His arms were pinioned from behind.
 Sid Purtle had him, the hateful voice was saying with a menacing and now really baleful quietude: "Now, wait a minute! Wait a minute, boys!... We were just play in' with him, weren't we, and he started to get hard with us!...
 Ain't that right?"
 "That's right, Sid. That's the way it was, all right!"
 "We thought he was a man, but he turns out to be just a little sore head, don't he? We were just kiddin' him along, and he has to go and get sore about it.