keepin's, I believe,” said the big boy.
“Nonsense,” I said. “Give me my knife.”
“'Ow many blades it got?”
“Three.”
“And what sort of 'andle?”
“Bone.”
“Got a corkscrew like?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! This ain't your knife no'ow. See?”
He made no offer to show it to me. My breath went.
“Look here!” I said. “I saw that kid pick it up. It IS my knife.”
“Rot!” said the big boy, and slowly, deliberately put my knife into his trouser pocket.
I braced my soul for battle. All civilisation was behind me, but I doubt if it kept the colour in my face. I buttoned my jacket and clenched my fists and advanced on my antagonist—he had, I suppose, the advantage of two years of age and three inches of height. “Hand over that knife,” I said.
Then one of the smallest of the band assailed me with extraordinary vigour and swiftness from