“Stop him! Part them! Hold him, somebody! He’ll kill the child!” yelled the bystanders, and not a man of them stirred.
“Why, it’s only a baby!” cried the girl in the reefer, running up. “He’ll murder it! Oh, if I was a man!” she raved, wringing her hands.
At that moment, before one could have lifted the eyelash to see how it fell, a well-aimed blow struck the brute beneath the ear. He fell.
Hands snatched the writhing child away; his mother’s arms and screams received him; and over the fallen man a slight, tall figure was seen to tower. The stranger had thrown down his valise, and tossed off his silk hat. His delicate face was as white as a star. He quivered with holy rage. He trampled on the fellow with one foot, and ground him down; he had the attitude of the St. Michael in Guido’s great picture. He had that scorn and all that beauty.
A geyser of oaths spurted from the prostrate ruffian. The stranger stooped, and pinned him skillfully until they ceased.
“Now,” he said calmly, “get up. Get up, I say!” He released his clenched white hand from the other’s grimy flesh.
“He’ll thresh the life outen ye!” protested a voice from the increasing crowd. “You don’t know Job Slip ’s well ’s we do. He’ll make short work on ye, sir, if you darst let go him.”
“No, he won’t,” replied the stranger quietly. “He respects a good blow when he feels it. He knows how it ought to be planted. He would do as much himself, if he saw a man killing his own child. Wouldn’t you, Job Slip?”
He stepped back fearlessly and folded his arms. The rapidly sobering sot struggled to his feet, and instinctively squared off; looked at the gentleman blindly for a moment, then dropped his huge arms.