confident of his own strength.  He weighs about one hundred and eighty pounds, and his muscles are hard; but he doesn’t know what he is up against.  The kids are snarling.  It is not pretty.  They make a rush from all sides, and he lashes out and whirls.  Barber Kid is standing beside me.  As the man whirls, Barber Kid leaps forward and does the trick.  Into the man’s back goes his knee; around the man’s neck, from behind, passes his right hand, the bone of the wrist pressing against the jugular vein.  Barber Kid throws his whole weight backward.  It is a powerful leverage.  Besides, the man’s wind has been shut off.  It is the strong arm.

The man resists, but he is already practically helpless.  The road-kids are upon him from every side, clinging to arms and legs and body, and like a wolf at the throat of a moose Barber Kid hangs on and drags backward.  Over the man goes, and down under the heap.  Barber Kid changes the position of his own body, but never lets go.  While some of the kids are “going through” the victim, others are holding his legs so that he cannot kick and thresh about.  They improve the opportunity by taking off the man’s shoes.  As for him, he has given in.  He is beaten.  Also, what of the strong arm at his throat, he is short of wind.  He is making ugly choking noises, and the kids hurry.  They really don’t want to kill him.  All is done.  At a word all holds are released at once, and the kids scatter, one of them lugging the shoes—­he knows where he can get half a dollar for them.  The man sits up and looks about him, dazed and helpless.  Even if he wanted to, barefooted pursuit in the darkness would be hopeless.  I linger a moment and watch him.  He is feeling at his throat, making dry, hawking noises, and jerking his head in a quaint way as though to assure himself that the neck is not dislocated.  Then I slip away to join the push, and see that man no more—­though I shall always see him, sitting there in the starlight, somewhat dazed, a bit frightened, greatly dishevelled, and making quaint jerking movements of head and neck.

Drunken men are the especial prey of the road-kids.  Robbing a drunken man they call “rolling a stiff”; and wherever they are, they are on the constant lookout for drunks.  The drunk is their particular meat, as the fly is the particular meat of the spider.  The rolling of a stiff is ofttimes an amusing sight, especially when the stiff is helpless and when interference is unlikely.  At the first swoop the stiff’s money and jewellery go.  Then the kids sit around their victim in a sort of pow-wow.  A kid generates a fancy for the stiff’s necktie.  Off it comes.  Another kid is after underclothes.  Off they come, and a knife quickly abbreviates arms and legs.  Friendly hoboes may be called in to take the coat and trousers, which are too large for the kids.  And in the end they depart, leaving beside the stiff the heap of their discarded rags.