"No _nice_ little boy would ever do that."

Keith's third realization in the way of self-consciousness was an uneasy
doubt of his own inherent nicety, for he soon discovered that whatever
was thus particularly forbidden seemed to himself particularly
desirable.

At times he saw children playing down there--perhaps in the very gutter
for which he was longing. To him they appeared entirely like himself,
but to his mother's eye they were evidently objectionable in the same
way as the gutter. There were not many of them, however, and it was a
long time before two or three of them began to return with sufficient
regularity to assume a distinct identity in his mind.

Older people came and went, but never many of them, and hardly ever more
than one or two at a time. Nor did he care very much. More attractive
was the sight of long, horse-drawn carts with narrow bodies resting on
two small wheels set about the centre. Generally they stopped in front
of the distillery to load or unload heavy casks or barrels of varying
size. The loading was more exciting by far, especially when the barrels
were large, for then the men had to use all their strength to roll them
up the gangway of two loose beams laid from the pavement to the cart,
and to time their efforts they shouted or chanted noisily--much to
Keith's joy and the disgust of his mother. On such occasions the air of
the lane was apt to take on a special pungency, and as he sniffed it, he
would have a sensation of mixed pleasure and revulsion. At other times
when the carts stopped in front of the warehouse below the distillery,
odours of an exclusively enjoyable character would tickle his
nostrils--odours that later he might encounter in their own kitchen and
identify with matters pleasing to the palate as well as to the nose.