There was nothing remarkable in that, but as I neared McGinnis's Court I
presently met another small boy, also eating a banana. A third small
boy engaged in a like occupation obtruded a painful coincidence upon
my mind. I leave the psychological reader to determine the exact
co-relation between this circumstance and the sickening sense of loss
that overcame me on witnessing it. I reached my room--and found the
bunch of bananas was gone.

There was but one who knew of their existence, but one who frequented
my window, but one capable of the gymnastic effort to procure them,
and that was--I blush to say it--Melons. Melons the depredator--Melons,
despoiled by larger boys of his ill-gotten booty, or reckless and
indiscreetly liberal; Melons--now a fugitive on some neighboring
house-top. I lit a cigar, and, drawing my chair to the window, sought
surcease of sorrow in the contemplation of the fish-geranium. In a few
moments something white passed my window at about the level of the edge.
There was no mistaking that hoary head, which now represented to me only
aged iniquity. It was Melons, that venerable, juvenile hypocrite.

He affected not to observe me, and would have withdrawn quietly, but
that horrible fascination which causes the murderer to revisit the scene
of his crime, impelled him toward my window. I smoked calmly and gazed
at him without speaking. He walked several times up and down the court
with a half-rigid, half-belligerent expression of eye and shoulder,
intended to represent the carelessness of innocence.

Once or twice he stopped, and putting his arms their whole length into
his capacious trousers, gazed with some interest at the additional
width they thus acquired. Then he whistled. The singular conflicting
conditions of John Brown's body and soul we're at that time beginning to
attract the attention of youth, and Melons's performance of that melody
was always remarkable. But to-day he whistled falsely and shrilly
between his teeth. At last he met my eye. He winced slightly, but
recovered himself, and going to the fence, stood for a few moments
on his hands, with his bare feet quivering in the air. Then he turned
toward me and threw out a conversational preliminary.

"They is a cirkis"--said Melons gravely, hanging with his back to
the fence and his arms twisted around the palings--"a cirkis over
yonder!"--indicating the locality with his foot--"with hosses, and
hossback riders. They is a man wot rides s