The Scapegoat

Cover

Who would not have pity for a poor, helpless victim? Nobody —except another poor victim!
Illustrated by WEISS
THE OLD GUY didn't have a chance. All he could do was shield his head with limp arms and moan, while this other fellow—a young, husky six-footer—gave him a vicious, cold-blooded beating.
Hey, there! I yelled indignantly. Cut it out!
But the kid kept belting away, as if he were methodically working out on a fifty-pound training bag. Finally, the old man sagged to the pavement. Then this hoodlum began to kick him.
I'm not a hero. I'm a newspaper man whose job it is to look at things objectively. But I know right from wrong.
My one punch caught the young bruiser back of the ear and spilled him on the ground. He lay there for a moment, then rolled over. Even by the street light, it was easy to see his eyes were glassy.
It gave me lots of satisfaction. I'm not a big man—just compact—but I take care of myself. I don't drink or smoke and I exercise regularly. The result is I can handle myself in the clinches.
The kid sat up and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. I could see now that he was a college boy. The red sweater with the terrycloth border and the white pants with a shortened left leg were a dead giveaway.
Listen here, I said roughly, you nuts? Beating up an old man!