“It would be a queer secret to know all the time when no one else knew it,'' The Rat communed with himself as it were, “that you were a king and you ought to be on a throne wearing a crown.
I wonder if it would make a chap look different?''
He laughed his squeaky laugh, and then turned in his sudden way to Marco:
“But he'd be a fool to give up the vengeance. What is your name?''
“Marco Loristan. What's yours? It isn't The Rat really.''
“It's Jem RATcliffe. That's pretty near. Where do you live?''
“No. 7 Philibert Place.''
“This club is a soldiers' club,'' said The Rat. “It's called the Squad. I'm the captain. 'Tention, you fellows! Let's show him.''
The semicircle sprang to its feet. There were about twelve lads altogether, and, when they stood upright, Marco saw at once that for some reason they were accustomed to obeying the word of command with military precision.
“Form in line!'' ordered The Rat.
They did it at once, and held their backs and legs straight and their heads up amazingly well. Each had seized one of the sticks which had been stacked together like guns.
The Rat himself sat up straight on his platform. There was actually something military in the bearing of his lean body. His voice lost its squeak and its sharpness became commanding.
He put the dozen lads through the drill as if he had been a smart young officer. And the drill itself was prompt and smart enough to have done credit to practiced soldiers in barracks. It made Marco involuntarily stand very straight himself, and watch with surprised interest.
“That's good!'' he exclaimed when it was at an end. “How did you learn that?''
The Rat made a savage gesture.
“If I'd had legs to stand on, I'd have been a soldier!'' he said. “I'd have enlisted in any regiment that would take me. Idon't care for anything else.''
Suddenly his face changed, and he shouted a command to his followers.
“Turn your backs!'' he ordered.
And they did turn their backs and looked through the railings of the old churchyard. Marco saw that they were obeying an order which was not new to them. The Rat had thrown his arm up over his eyes and covered them. He held it there for several moments, as if he did not want to be seen. Marco turned his back as the rest had done. All at once he understood that, though The Rat was not crying, yet he was feeling something which another boy would possibly have broken down under.
“All right!'' he shouted presently, and dropped his ragged-sleeved arm and sat up straight again.
“I want to go to war!'' he said hoarsely. “I want to fight! Iwant to lead a lot of men into battle! And I haven't got any legs. Sometimes it takes the pluck out of me.''
“You've not grown up yet!'' said Marco. “You might get strong.
No one knows what is going to happen. How did you learn to drill the club?''
“I hang about barracks. I watch and listen. I follow soldiers.
If I could get books, I'd read about wars. I can't go to libraries as you can. I can do nothing but scuffle about like a rat.''
“I can take you to some libraries,'' said Marco. “There are places where boys can get in. And I can get some papers from my father.''
“Can you?'' said The Rat. “Do you want to join the club?''
“Yes!'' Marco answered. “I'll speak to my father about it.''
He said it because the hungry longing for companionship in his own mind had found a sort of response in the queer hungry look in The Rat's eyes. He wanted to see him again. Strange creature as he was, there was attraction in him. Scuffling about on his low wheeled platform, he had drawn this group of rough lads to him and made himself their commander. They obeyed him; they listened to his stories and harangues about war and soldiering; they let him drill them and give them orders. Marco knew that, when he told his father about him, he would be interested. The boy wanted to hear what Loristan would say.
“I'm going home now,'' he said. “If you're going to be here to- morrow, I will try to come.''
“We shall be here,'' The Rat answered. “It's our barracks.''
Marco drew himself up smartly and made his salute as if to a superior officer. Then he wheeled about and marched through the brick archway, and the sound of his boyish tread was as regular and decided as if he had been a man keeping time with his regiment.
“He's been drilled himself,'' said The Rat. “He knows as much as I do.''
And he sat up and stared down the passage with new interest.
