"Wot yer got under yer arm?" the leader demanded abruptly of Fred, at the
same time jerking out the bundle. "More kites, eh? Reg'lar kite-factory
gone and got itself lost," he remarked finally, when he had appropriated
Charley's bundle. "Now, wot I wants to know is wot we 're goin' to do to
you t'ree chaps?" he continued in a judicial tone.

"What for?" Joe demanded hotly. "For being robbed of our kites?"

"Not at all, not at all," the leader responded politely; "but for luggin'
kites round these quarters an' causin' all this unseemly disturbance.
It 's disgraceful; that 's wot it is--disgraceful."

At this juncture, when the Hill-dwellers were the center of attraction,
Brick suddenly wormed out of his jacket, squirmed away from his captors,
and dashed across the lot to the slip for which he had been originally
headed when overtaken by Joe. Two or three of the gang shot over the
fence after him in noisy pursuit. There was much barking and howling of
back-yard dogs and clattering of shoes over sheds and boxes. Then there
came a splashing of water, as though a barrel of it had been precipitated
to the ground. Several minutes later the pursuers returned, very sheepish
and very wet from the deluge presented them by the wily Brick, whose
voice, high up in the air from some friendly housetop, could be heard
defiantly jeering them.

This event apparently disconcerted the leader of the gang, and just as
he turned to Joe and Fred and Charley, a long and peculiar whistle came
to their ears from the street--the warning signal, evidently, of a scout
posted to keep a lookout. The next moment the scout himself came flying
back to the main body, which was already beginning to retreat.