"You slut! You—! You—!" he bellowed and swung his heavy-soled boot into her ribs.
Yetta—to use a phrase of melodrama—"saw red." Something happened in her brain. Her rather Platonic conviction of a few minutes before that somebody ought to kill the brute, was changed into a passionate, throbbing desire to do it herself.
Just as his foot found its goal in Mrs. Muscovitz' side, Pick-Axe felt the sudden impact of Yetta's whole weight. It was more of a spring than a rush. As far as she had any idea, she wanted to choke him. The sudden jolt bowled him over—he was standing on one foot—and as he fell his head came down on the stone paving with a sickening thud. If it had not been for his heavy cap, the blow might have cracked his skull. As it was it stunned him. His face turned very white. The scab ran up the street too frightened to look back.
"I hope he's dead," Yetta said with tight-clenched fists.
But Mrs. Muscovitz felt his heart and shook her head.
"Sure?" Yetta asked.
"Yes. His heart's beating. Feel it yourself."
"I wouldn't touch the snake with my foot," Yetta said; "come on."
"Nobody but the scab seen us," Mrs. Muscovitz said.
"Come on," Yetta repeated. "Let's go to headquarters."