A very little boy stood upon a heap of gravel for the honor of RumAlley. He was throwing stones at howling urchins from Devil's Row whowere circling madly about the heap and pelting at him.
His infantile countenance was livid with fury. His small body waswrithing in the delivery of great, crimson oaths.
"Run, Jimmie, run! Dey'll get yehs," screamed a retreating Rum Alleychild.
"Naw," responded Jimmie with a valiant roar, "dese micks can't make merun."
Howls of renewed wrath went up from Devil's Row throats. Tatteredgamins on the right made a furious assault on the gravel heap. Ontheir small, convulsed faces there shone the grins of true assassins.As they charged, they threw stones and cursed in shrill chorus.
The little champion of Rum Alley stumbled precipitately down the otherside. His coat had been to