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 were 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 six hosses to onct--six hosses
to onct--and nary saddle"--and he paused in expectation.
Even this equestrian novelty did not affect me. I still kept a fixed
gaze on Melons's eye, and he began to tremble and visibly shrink in his
capacious garment. Some other desperate means--conversation with Melons
was always a desperate means--must be resorted to. He recommenced more
artfully:
"Do you know Carrots?"
I had a faint remembrance of a boy of that euphonious name, with
scarlet hair, who was a playmate and persecutor of Melons. But I said
nothing.
"Carrots is a bad boy. Killed a policeman onct. Wears a dirk knife in
his boots. Saw him to-day looking in your windy."