of Johnnie's tormentors, hauling
them back, and suddenly he found himself free. Once more he took to his
heels, and panting, dripping, scarlet and more ragged than before, he
fled ignominiously.

CHAPTER VIII

MORE TREASURES

WHEN he had put half a dozen blocks behind him, he slackened his pace,
took a quick look into several doorways, chose one that promised
seclusion, dove into it, got his breath back, made sure that the
precious book was safe, and then indulged himself in a grin that was all
relief.

The grin narrowed as he remembered that Grandpa was alone in the flat.
"Oh, but Big Tom or Mrs. Kukor'll be home soon," he reflected; and
comforted his conscience further by vowing that, given good luck, he
would in no time be in a position to return for the purpose of enticing
away both Cis and the old soldier (men are men, and in the stress of the
moment he did not give a thought to that slim, little, dark-haired
girl). He could not help but feel hopeful regarding his plans. Had not
just such adventuring as this accomplished wonderful results for his new
friend, Aladdin, a boy as poor as himself?

He did not stay long in the doorway. He felt sure that the moment Barber
returned a search of the neighborhood would be made, during which people
would be questioned. Discretion urged that more blocks be put between
the flat and that small back which so dreaded the strap. So off he went
once more--at a lively trot.

Though during the last five years he had not once been so far away from
the area as this, he was not frightened. A city-bred boy, he felt as
much at ease, scuttling along, as a fish in its native waters, or a
rabbit in its own warren. He had taken a westward direction because he
knew that the other way East River lay close, shutting off flight. Now
he began to read the street signs. Cis had often talked of a great
thoroughfare which cut the city into two unequal parts--a one-time road,
she said it was, and so long that it ran through other cities. This was
the street Johnnie wanted--being the one he had heard most about. It was
a street called Broadway.

As he traveled, he passed other dirty, ragged, little boys. His head was
the yellowest of them all, his clothes were the poorest. But he was
scarcely noticed. The occasional patrolman did not more than glance at
him. And he was fully as indifferent. At his Aunt Sophie's, a
policeman--by name Mike Callaghan--had been a frequent visitor, when he
w