at me! Crawling round on the ground like this! Look at me!"

He made a gesture ordering his followers to move aside, and began to
push himself rapidly, with queer darts this side and that round the
inclosure. He bent his head and body, and twisted his face, and made
strange animal-like movements. He even uttered sharp squeaks as he
rushed here and there--as a rat might have done when it was being
hunted. He did it as if he were displaying an accomplishment, and his
followers' laughter was applause.

"Wasn't I like a rat?" he demanded, when he suddenly stopped.

"You made yourself like one on purpose," Marco answered. "You do it for
fun."

"Not so much fun," said The Rat. "I feel like one. Every one's my enemy.
I'm vermin. I can't fight or defend myself unless I bite. I can bite,
though." And he showed two rows of fierce, strong, white teeth, sharper
at the points than human teeth usually are. "I bite my father when he
gets drunk and beats me. I've bitten him till he's learned to remember."
He laughed a shrill, squeaking laugh. "He hasn't tried it for three
months--even when he was drunk--and he's always drunk." Then he laughed
again still more shrilly. "He's a gentleman," he said. "I'm a
gentleman's son. He was a Master at a big school until he was kicked
out--that was when I was four and my mother died. I'm thirteen now. How
old are you?"

"I'm twelve," answered Marco.

The Rat twisted his face enviously.