John Jasper, on his way home through the Close, is brought to a stand-still by the spectacle of Stony¹ Durdles, dinner-bundle and all, leaning his back against the iron railing of the burial-ground enclosing it from the old cloister-arches; and a hideous² small boy in rags flinging stones at him as a well-defined mark in the moonlight. Sometimes the stones hit him, and sometimes they miss him, but Durdles seems indifferent to either fortune. The hideous small boy, on the contrary, whenever he hits Durdles, blows a whistle of triumph through a jagged gap, convenient for the purpose, in the front of his mouth, where half his teeth are wanting; and whenever he misses him, yelps³ out ‘Mulled agin!’ and tries to atone⁴ for the failure by taking a more correct and vicious aim.

‘What are you doing to the man?’ demands Jasper, stepping out into the moonlight from the shade.

‘Making a cock-shy of him,’ replies the hideous small boy.

‘Give me those stones in your hand.’

‘Yes, I’ll give ’em you down your throat, if you come a-ketching hold of me,’ says the small boy, shaking himself loose, and backing. ‘I’ll smash your eye, if you don’t look out!’

‘Baby–Devil that you are, what has the man done to you?’

‘He won’t go home.’

‘What is that to you?’

‘He gives me a ’apenny to pelt⁵ him home if I ketches him out too late,’ says the boy. And then chants, like a little savage⁶, half stumbling and half dancing among the rags and laces of his dilapidated boots:–

‘Widdy widdy wen!

I— ket — ches — Im — out — ar — ter — ten,

Widdy widdy wy!

Then — E— don’t — go — then — I— shy —

Widdy Widdy Wake-cock warning!’

— with a comprehensive sweep on the last word, and one more delivery at Durdles.

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