Having whined and nagged until his mother no longer could bear it, Keith at last obtained the cherished permission to go and play in the lane. "But look out for horses," warned his mother as he stood in the doorway ready to run. "And don't run out of sight, and you must come when I call, and--you had better keep away from other boys, or you may come home quite naked this time." "What do you mean," asked Keith, turning to see whether the mother was joking or talking seriously. "Don't you recall when those boys took your coat from you, and you came up here crying?" There could be no mistake about her meaning just what she said. Keith stood still thinking very hard. Here was another memory that he could not remember at all. There was not a trace of it left in his mind, and yet it must have happened. It sounded exciting, too, and he wished to know all about it. "You had better close the door," his mother suggested. "All right," said Keith, hastening to close the door from the outside and make a dive for the stairway. There would be plenty of time to ask about the loss of his coat later. He was halfway down the first flight when he heard the kitchen door open behind him, and his heart leapt into his throat. "You must go down the stairs quietly," his mother called out from above, whereupon Keith's heart resumed its normal position. He descended the rest of that flight on tip-toe. The second one was taken more rapidly, and down the last one he went two steps at a time, the little iron plates under his heels hitting the stones with a ring that echoed through the old house. In the lane he found them loading a dray in front of the distillery, and he started across to watch the men straining at the next barrel. He had hardly taken a step in that direction, however, when a loud pop was heard from the black cave forming the entrance to the distillery. It was followed first by a single cry, and then by a hubbub of voices. A second later a young man came running out and threw himself prone into the gutter, where a trickle of water was to be seen. Keith was too astonished to be frightened at once. He could not understand what made the man act in this way. Then another man came out in a rush and began to beat the legs of the man in the gutter with his hands, and Keith suddenly noticed that little blue flames were dancing up and down the grimy leathern trousers of the first man. The memory of the night when the church burned leaped into his mind, making him turn instinctively toward the passageway and his mother's lap. At that moment a third man appeared carrying a big tank full of water which he poured over the man in the gutter. The latter got on his feet and limped back into the distillery, supported by his two comrades. Keith was left behind, trembling a little and gazing curiously at the hanging head of the dray-horse which had not made the slightest movement during the previous excitement. "He'll have to go to bed," said a sleepy voice at his shoulder just then. Keith swung around as if touched by an electric shock. Before him he saw another small boy, apparently of his own age, but a little taller, and light-haired like himself. "What's your name," asked Keith as soon as he caught his breath. "Johan," answered the other stolidly, but not unfriendly. "Have you got another name like me?" "My name is Johan Peter Gustafsson," was the reply given in the tone of a lesson painfully learned. "Where do you live?" "Right here." "Not in our house," Keith protested. "No, down there," Johan explained, pointing to the little side door leading into the courtyard of one of the corner houses at the Quay. "What's your father?" Keith continued his cross-examination. "Vaktmästare" said Johan indifferently. "So is mine," Keith cried eagerly. "Have you got a bank, too?" Johan shook his head as if unable to grasp what Keith meant. "My popsey works in the office down there," he said, "and we live beside it, and at night I go with popsey when he carries all the mail to the postoffice." "Why do you call him popsey," inquired Keith, fascinated by the new word and wondering if he would dare use it to his own father. "Because that's what he is," Johan declared. A few minutes later they were playing together as if they had known each other for ever. They had just discovered an unusually large and tempting pin in a crack at the bottom of the gutter, when Keith heard his mother calling from the window above: "What are you doing, Keith?" "Oh, just playing," he replied without looking up, forgetful of everything but the pin that would not come out of the crack. "Who is that with you?" "That is Johan," Keith shouted back triumphantly, "and his papa is a vaktmästare, too." "Come right up and let me speak to you," was the insistant rejoinder from above. "Oh, please, mamma," the boy pleaded, his voice breaking a little, "can't I stay just a little longer?" "You must come at once," his mother commanded. "Is that your mumsey," Johan asked. "It is my mamma," Keith retorted, his attention momentarily diverted by Johan's most peculiar way of referring to his parents. "Then you had better go," advised the new friend sagely, "or she will tell your popsey, and then you know what happens to you." "I think I can come down again, if you wait for me," cried Keith as he ran into the long dark passageway. At that moment a cry of "Johan" rose from the lower part of the lane, and Keith had to come back once more to look. "There's my mumsey now," said Johan philosophically, pointing to an open window on the ground floor of the corner house. With that he slouched off in a manner that Keith half envied and half resented.