g than two vagabond boys wandering about picking up
their living as best they could, not seeming to belong to any one? And
one a cripple. It was true--yes, it was true, as The Rat said, that
his being a cripple made him look safer than any one else. Marco
actually put his forehead in his hands and pressed his temples.

"What's the matter?" exclaimed The Rat. "What are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking what a general you would make. I'm thinking that it
might all be real--every word of it. It mightn't be a game at all,"
said Marco.

"No, it mightn't," The Rat answered. "If I knew where the Secret
Party was, I'd like to go and tell them about it. What's that!" he
said, suddenly turning his head toward the street. "What are they
calling out?"

Some newsboy with a particularly shrill voice was shouting out
something at the topmost of his lungs.

Tense and excited, no member of the circle stirred or spoke for a few
seconds. The Rat listened, Marco listened, the whole Squad listened,
pricking up their ears.

"Startling news from Samavia," the newsboy was shrilling out. "Amazing
story! Descendant of the Lost Prince found! Descendant of the Lost
Prince found!"

"Any chap got a penny?" snapped The Rat, beginning to shuffle toward
the arched passage.

"I have!" answered Marco, following him.

"Come on!" The Rat yelled. "Let's go and get a paper!" And he whizzed
down the passage with his swiftest rat-like dart, while the Squad
followed him, shouting and tumbling over each other.

IX

"IT IS NOT A GAME"

Loristan walked slowly up and down the back sitting-room and listened
to Marco, who sat by the small fire and talked.

"Go on," he said, whenever the boy stopped. "I want to hear it all.
He's a strange lad, and it's a splendid game."

Marco was telling him the story of his second and third visits to the
inclosure behind the deserted church-yard. He had begun at the
beginning, and his father had listened with a deep interest.

A year later, Marco recalled this evening as a thrilling memory, and as
one which would never pass away from him throughout his life. He would
always be able to call it all back. The small and dingy back room, the
dimness of the one poor gas-burner, which was all they could afford to
light, the iron box pushed into the corner with its maps and plans
locked safely in it, the erect bearing and actual beauty of the tall
form, which the shabbiness of worn and mended clothe