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.