Babel broke loose.
Some went off in silence; others crowded about the officer, expostulating, cajoling, grumbling.

It was "the first snow;" they "always slid on that hill;" "it did not hurt anybody;" "nobody cared," etc.
"This gentleman has complained, and you must stop," said the officer.
They all turned on Livingstone with sudden hate.
"Arr-oh-h!" they snarled in concert.

"We ain't a-hurtin' him! What's he got to do wid us anyhow!" One more apt archer than the rest, shouted, "He ain't no gentleman--a _gentleman_ don't never interfere wid poor little boys what ain't a-done him no harm!" But they stopped, and the more timid or impatient stole off to find new and less inconveniently guarded inclines.
Livingstone passed on.

He did not know that the moment he left and the officer turned his back, the whole hillside swarmed again into life and fun and joy.

He did not know this; but he bore off with him a new thorn which even his feeling of civic virtue could not keep from rankling.