He lifted the boy in his arms, and, carrying him across the street, set him down on the wide stone balustrade. Then, taking out a pocket-knife, he deftly ripped up the torn sleeve, supporting the child's head against his breast, while Gemma held the injured arm. The shoulder was badly bruised and grazed, and there was a deep gash on the arm.
“That's an ugly cut to give a mite like you,” said the Gadfly, fastening his handkerchief round the wound to prevent the jacket from rubbing against it. “What did he do it with?”
“The shovel. I went to ask him to give me a soldo to get some polenta at the corner shop, and he hit me with the shovel.”
The Gadfly shuddered. “Ah!” he said softly, “that hurts; doesn't it, little one?”
“He hit me with the shovel—and I ran away—I ran away—because he hit me.”
“And you've been wandering about ever since, without any dinner?”
Instead of answering, the child began to sob violently. The Gadfly lifted him off the balustrade.
“There, there! We'll soon set all that straight. I wonder if we can get a cab anywhere. I'm afraid they'll all be waiting by the theatre; there's a grand performance going on to-night. I am sorry to drag you about so, signora; but——”
“I would rather come with you. You may want help. Do you think you can carry him so far? Isn't he very heavy?”
“Oh, I can manage, thank you.”