The bundle moved, and answered something in a low, moaning voice. Gemma came across to look, and saw a child of about six years old, ragged and dirty, crouching on the pavement like a frightened animal. The Gadfly was bending down with his hand on the unkempt head.
“What is it?” he said, stooping lower to catch the unintelligible answer. “You ought to go home to bed; little boys have no business out of doors at night; you'll be quite frozen! Give me your hand and jump up like a man! Where do you live?”
He took the child's arm to raise him. The result was a sharp scream and a quick shrinking away.
“Why, what is it?” the Gadfly asked, kneeling down on the pavement. “Ah! Signora, look here!”
The child's shoulder and jacket were covered with blood.
“Tell me what has happened?” the Gadfly went on caressingly. “It wasn't a fall, was it? No? Someone's been beating you? I thought so! Who was it?”
“My uncle.”
“Ah, yes! And when was it?”
“This morning. He was drunk, and I—I——”
“And you got in his way—was that it? You shouldn't get in people's way when they are drunk, little man; they don't like it. What shall we do with this poor mite, signora? Come here to the light, sonny, and let me look at that shoulder. Put your arm round my neck; I won't hurt you. There we are!”