Fred and Charley followed after, though he outdistanced them, and behind came the three other members of the gang, emitting a whistling call while they ran which was evidently intended for the assembling of the rest of the band. As the chase proceeded, these whistles were answered from many different directions, and soon a score of dark figures were tagging at the heels of Fred and Charley, who, in turn, were straining every muscle to keep the swifter-footed Joe in sight. Brick Simpson darted into a vacant lot, aiming for a "slip," as such things are called which are prearranged passages through fences and over sheds and houses and around dark holes and corners, where the unfamiliar pursuer must go more carefully and where the chances are many that he will soon lose the track. But Joe caught Brick before he could attain his end, and together they rolled over and over in the dirt, locked in each other's arms. By the time Fred and Charley and the gang had come up, they were on their feet, facing each other. "Wot d' ye want, eh?" the red-headed gang-leader was saying in a bullying tone. "Wot d' ye want? That 's wot I wanter know." "I want my kites," Joe answered. Brick Simpson's eyes sparkled at the intelligence. Kites were something he stood in need of himself. "Then you 've got to fight fer 'em," he announced. "Why should I fight for them?" Joe demanded indignantly. "They 're mine." Which went to show how ignorant he was of the ideas of ownership and property rights which obtained among the People of the Pit. A chorus of jeers and catcalls went up from the gang, which clustered behind its leader like a pack of wolves. "Why should I fight for them?" Joe reiterated. "'Cos I say so," Simpson replied. "An' wot I say goes. Understand?" But Joe did not understand. He refused to understand that Brick Simpson's word was law in San Francisco, or any part of San Francisco. His love of honesty and right dealing was offended, and all his fighting blood was up. "You give those kites to me, right here and now," he threatened, reaching out his hand for them. But Simpson jerked them away. "D' ye know who I am?" he demanded. "I 'm Brick Simpson, an' I don't 'low no one to talk to me in that tone of voice." "Better leave him alone," Charley whispered in Joe's ear. "What are a few kites? Leave him alone and let 's get out of this." "They 're my kites," Joe said slowly in a dogged manner. "They 're my kites, and I 'm going to have them." "You can't fight the crowd," Fred interfered; "and if you do get the best of him they 'll all pile on you." The gang, observing this whispered colloquy, and mistaking it for hesitancy on the part of Joe, set up its wolf-like howling again. "Afraid! afraid!" the young roughs jeered and taunted. "He 's too high-toned, he is! Mebbe he 'll spoil his nice clean shirt, and then what 'll mama say?" "Shut up!" their leader snapped authoritatively, and the noise obediently died away.