The Palace of Laughter by Jon Berkeley

Author:Jon Berkeley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2006-01-28T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY

A NEST OF ANTS

Miles Wednesday, freshly minted Pigball legend, smiled as he was carried shoulder-high by cheering Halfheads down the bullring terraces. The Stinkers waited below in a surly knot, arguing about the outcome of the game. Tempers flared and scuffles broke out. Little and Henry were still under guard on the Stinker terrace. Jook approached the chief Stinker, and the rest of his gang fell silent.

“Halfheads claim the prisoners back,” said Jook.

The chief Stinker shook his head. “Stinkers demand a rematch. Spectators aren’t allowed to score.”

“The Gnat didn’t score,” said Jook. “You seen it—our pez dropped the ball in the can.”

“Maybe so,” said the Stinker in chief, “but he played two balls. That’s not allowed.”

“The way I heard it, that’s only not allowed if one of them is an eyeball,” said Miles. “Anyhow, I can’t help it if your Stinkers are dumb enough to run off with my best Sunday shirt.”

Jook laughed. “Pez is right, and you made a deal. Now hand over the prisoners.”

“Or else what,” sneered the Stinker in chief. Some of his fighters began to close in behind him.

“Or else the cops will get you,” said Miles.

“What are you talking about, farm boy?” said the chief Stinker.

“Big fellas, shiny buttons, just picked up your two guards,” said Miles, pointing over the Stinker’s shoulder. The Stinker in chief laughed. “You don’t expect me…,” he began, but he never got to finish his sentence. Miles was gone, his tiredness forgotten, sprinting in a wide arc around the surprised Stinkers toward the Stinker terraces, where two policemen were hauling Little’s guards roughly up the stone steps. Another large meat-faced man made a lunge at Little herself, but she ducked between his legs and jumped down the last three terraces, almost landing on top of Miles as he reached the bottom step.

“Miles!” she said. “You were brilliant!”

“No time for that.” Miles grinned. “Here’s our chance. Let’s get out of here.”

The police were streaming out from under the arches and cantering awkwardly down the terraces. They had managed to catch a couple of Gnats by surprise, though the small boys were mostly too quick for them. The arena was suddenly like an ant’s nest that had been poked with a stick. Halfheads and Stinkers ran in every direction, pursued by police blowing whistles and shouting—now that the element of surprise had passed—about burglary and painted ’ooliganism, and grabbing whoever they could get their hands on.

Miles took Little’s hand and ran toward the mouth of a narrow alley between the terraces. He stooped to grab his discarded bone on the way, and shoved it into his belt. They ran down the alley, through which angry bulls had once charged, rubbing the walls smooth with their coarse flanks and trampling the earth iron-hard beneath their hooves. At the end of the alley their way was blocked by a tall iron gate, topped with curved spikes.

“It’s too high,” said Little.

“Not for you,” said Miles. “You’ve got wings.”

Little shook her head. “I won’t go without you.

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