Freckles stepped back, glaring at Wessner, but suddenly the scowl of anger and the ugly disfiguring red faded from the boy's face.

He dabbed at a cut on his temple from which issued a tiny crimson stream, and jauntily shook back his hair.

His face took on the innocent look of a cherub, and his voice rivaled that of a brooding dove, but into his eyes crept a look of diabolical mischief.
He glanced vaguely around him until he saw his club, seized and twirled it as a drum major, stuck it upright in the muck, and marched on tiptoe to Wessner, mechanically, as a puppet worked by a string.

Bending over, Freckles reached an arm around Wessner's waist and helped him to his feet.
"Careful, now" he cautioned, "be careful, Freddy; there's danger of you hurting me." Drawing a handkerchief from a back pocket, Freckles tenderly wiped Wessner's eyes and nose.
"Come, Freddy, me child," he admonished Wessner, "it's time little boys were going home.

I've me work to do, and can't be entertaining you any more today.