"Damn him, he may have a gun," exclaimed Braddock. "He's used one before."
"Why did you strike me?" cried David hoarsely, his lips twitching, his eyes glowing like coals.
"Aw, none o' that, now, none o' that," snarled Braddock, taking a step forward.
"Why did you strike me?" repeated the boy dully.
"Calm yourself, my boy," Mrs. Braddock kept repeating insistently, without raising her voice, always low, tense, impelling.
The tears sprang to his eyes—tears of rage and helplessness. With a sob he turned away and leaned his head against the pole.
"Poor boy," she whispered.
"Don't you call me a brute, Casey," roared Braddock, turning upon the contortionist in a fury. Casey had not uttered a word, but Braddock instinctively anticipated the charge. The contortionist was afraid of him. He drew back with a scared look in his eyes.
Mrs. Braddock was speaking quietly, compassionately to the suffering boy. "We must be careful," she said, "not to oppose him too strongly. Those men are out in front. He will turn you over to them if you resort to violence. Calm yourself, do. There is still the chance that he may change his mind. He is not really heartless. It is only his way."
"Why did he strike me?" again fell from the lips of the fugitive.