Joe looked curiously at this latest band of marauders. They were young
men of from seventeen and eighteen to twenty-three and -four years of
age, and bore the unmistakable stamp of the hoodlum class. There were
vicious faces among them--faces so vicious as to make Joe's flesh creep
as he looked at them. A couple grasped him tightly by the arms, and
Fred and Charley were similarly held captive.

"Look here, you," said one who spoke with the authority of leader,
"we 've got to inquire into this. Wot 's be'n goin' on here? Wot 're
you up to, Red-head? Wot you be'n doin'?"

"Ain't be'n doin' nothin'," Simpson whined.

"Looks like it." The leader turned up Brick's face to the electric
light. "Who 's been paintin' you up like that?" he demanded.

Brick pointed at Joe, who was forthwith dragged to the front.

"Wot was you scrappin' about?"

"Kites--my kites," Joe spoke up boldly. "That fellow tried to take them
away from me. He 's got them under his arm now."

"Oh, he has, has he? Look here, you Brick, we don't put up with stealin'
in this territory. See? You never rightly owned nothin'. Come, fork over
the kites. Last call."

The leader tightened his grasp threateningly, and Simpson, weeping tears
of rage, surrendered the plunder.