All his awkwardness and shyness had dropped from him like a disguise.
No one knew that he was a strange little boy or that his father owed
money to all the tradespeople. He was just like anyone else. And he
had run faster than the fastest of them. He had wanted to show her
that he was not just a cry baby. And whenever he had come near her he
had been all warm with happiness.

In three days the nice children had become the Brothers Banditti with
Robert Stonehouse as their chief. Having admitted the stranger into
their midst he had gone straight to their heads like wine. He was a
rebel and an outlaw who had suddenly come into power. At heart he was
older than any of them. He knew things about reversions and bailiffs
and life generally that none of them had ever heard of in their
well-ordered homes. He was strong and knew how to fight. The nice
children had never fought but they found they liked it. Once, like an
avenging Attila, he had led them across the hill and fallen upon his
ancient enemies with such awful effect that they never raised their
heads again. And the Banditti had returned home whooping and drunk
with victory and the newly discovered joy of battle. His hand was
naturally against all authority. He led them in dark plottings against
their governesses and nursemaids, and even against the Law itself as
personified by an elderly, somewhat pompous policeman whose beat
included their territory. On foggy afternoons they pealed the
doorbells of such as had complaint against them, and from concealment
gloated over the indignant maids who had been lured down several
flights of stairs to answer their summons. And no longer were they
nice children who returned home clean and punctual to the bosom of
their families.

Very rarely had the Banditti showed signs of revolt against Robert's