Free Jim Morgan and the King of Thieves by James Matlack Raney Page A

a jumpin’ gypsy!”
    The other boys, who were apparently Red’s yes men, chimed in one at a time.
    “Sure has some pretty locks — a dandy, all right, a dandy!”
    “Apply some fresh powder to your hands this morning, darlin’? Plumes and cheeks, plumes and cheeks, look at ’im!”
    “Ho’ever — smells like cabbage — could be a gypsy.”
    Big Red snapped his fingers, and his yes men shut their traps, but they continued to leer at James. Their confidence soared along with James’ ever-whitening cheeks. It must be understood that James had never really been forced to stand up for himself. Some servant or another had always been about whenever James had been in London before, and he’d never thought twice about his snide comments made from the safety of Aunt Margarita’s carriage. But now, facing four boys far more well put together for a row and far more eager for one than James himself, and having nothing but his clothes and the cool London air between himself and them, the world suddenly felt a mite bit more unpredictable.
    “Well, fellows.” James felt it wise to turn to his vast knowledge of their “street talk” than to tell them what he really thought. “I think there’s hardly call for a tussle over a bit of a bump, wouldn’t you say?”
    “No, I wouldn’t…fellow.” Big Red’s lips curled his sneer one more tick in the direction of wicked, as though he smelled a hint of fear just over the nearly overwhelming scent of cabbage lingering all over James.
    “No, we don’t know, do we?”
    “Do we fellow? Do we? Fell-o-o-w?
    “Fellow, fellow, fell-OW”
    Red snapped his fingers again and again his boys stopped yakking, mustering the biggest, dumbest grins they could. But to James, and to all other young boys who have been a bit on the smallish side, such big dumb smiles looked nothing but. Rather they appeared to Jamesas cruel and bloodthirsty. Red, on the other hand, wasn’t smiling. He was staring - staring hard at the box in James’s hands. The look crossing his face was one that James should have recognized: the face of a little boy who suddenly wanted something that wasn’t his.
    “So, fell-ow.” Red walked in a close circle around James, puffing out his chest, his voice dripping with disrespect. “I’m thinkin’ you’re right about not needin’ any sort of tussle or nothin’ for such a lil’ bump.”
    “You are?” James wasn’t so sure about that. “That’s quite civil of you, thank you.”
    “Oh, you’ll find I’m all about civilness, my good fell-ow.” Red’s gang giggled.
    “Ah, of course,” James said. “That would be ‘civil-ity,’ but I appreciate it nonetheless.”
    Red’s friend’s giggled even harder now.
    “I think we can get over all of this with a simple tradin’ of goods.” Red stopped circling, coming face to face with James, crossing his arms over his chest. “You gimme that box, and I’ll let you off the old hook and call us square.”
    James may have been selfish and naïve, but stupid he was not. He saw what was coming and his grip tightened on his precious box. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t lose it – he couldn’t lose it. The box held all that was left of who James was, and it was his only way of getting everything he lost back again. James once more regretted tossing down the swords of his fencing lessons and shrugging at the old master’s attempts to teach him a few tricks of wrestling. Those lapses in attention, it seemed, were about to prove costly.
    “It’s mine,” James said as hotly as he could. Sweat slicked his palms and flickering fear twinged in his stomach.
    “A tussle it is then!” Red smiled with glee and snapped his fingers. The gang of yes men seized James by his arms while Red grabbed the box.
    James did his best. He could not be faulted for lack of effort. He kicked and squirmed, twisted and thrashed in the bigger boys’ grip, he may have even bitten an arm or hand or two and certainly exercised