“A dandy, are you, Young John? So it’s Lord John, is it? Excuse me all to heaven indeed! Are we not to your cultured taste, your lordship?”

The man trotted in front of him and swayed from side to side, as if made jaunty by the prospect of fresh sport.

“Come, Young John, let’s be friends.”

The man took another swipe at him and Joe jerked to his right and darted ahead again. He turned back long enough to raise his palms and show the man he wanted no trouble, and then he turned forward again and picked up the pace, hoping the guy would tire of the game and spend his energy on an easier mark.

“You’ve pretty hair, Young John. The color of some cats I’ve seen, it ’tis.”

Joe heard the man pick up sudden speed behind him, a mad scrabbling, and he hopped up onto the sidewalk and ducked low and ran through the skirts of two tall women smoking cigars who swatted at him and let loose high laughs. He looked back over his shoulder at them but they’d turned their attention to the brown-toothed barker who was still in pursuit.

“Ah, leave him alone, ya cretin.”

“Mind yourselves, ladies, or I’ll be back with me blade.”

The women laughed. “We’ve seen your blade, Rory, and, sure, it’s shameful small, it is.”

Joe broke back out into the middle of the street.

Rory scuttled up alongside him. “Can I shine your shoes, Lord? Can I turn down your bed?”

“Let him be, you ponce,” one of the women called, but Joe could tell by their voices that they’d lost interest. He swung his arms by his side, trying to pretend he didn’t notice Rory making ape sounds beside him, the man swinging his arms now, too. Joe kept his head turned forward, trying to appear like a boy with a firm destination as he headed deeper into the thickening mob.

Rory ran his hand gently along the side of Joe’s face and Joe punched him.

His fist caught the side of Rory’s head and the man blinked. Several men along the sidewalk laughed. Joe ran and the laughter followed them up the street.

“Can I be of service?” Rory called as he trotted behind him. “Can I help you with your griefs? They looks a might heavy for ye.”

He was gaining on him and Joe darted around an overturned wagon and through a group of men. He ran past two men with shotguns and through the doors of a saloon. He stepped to his left and watched the doors and took several gulps of air and then looked around at the men, many in their work shirts and suspenders, a majority with handlebar mustaches and black bowlers. They looked back at him. Somewhere in the rear of the saloon, beyond the crowd and the smoke, Joe heard grunts and moans and knew that he’d interrupted some kind of show back there, and he opened his mouth to tell them he was being chased. He caught the bartender’s eye as he did, and the bartender pointed across the bar at him and said, “Throw that fucking kid out of here.”