“He shall go in first, I tell you. Now, leave go!”
“Keep him just one hour!”
“You, with your hours! Clear off this minute unless you want your face smashed!”
But these last words were the man’s undoing. If he had not talked of smashing faces, Aleko might not have thought of it, but as he stood there, his head thrown back, his blue eyes glittering with rage, some familiar words flashed across his mind.
“Straight out from the shoulder, Aleko! Follow your blow! Come with it!”
All encumbrances were flung aside; newspapers were carried away by the breeze, a shower of coffee fell on the ground from a burst paper bag, and straight as a dart, and steady, and strong, the boy’s fist flew out from his shoulder with all the weight of the sturdy little body behind it, and landed with crashing force on the man’s chin.
The man staggered back, striking his head against the iron bars of the cart, and went down like a tree that is felled.
VIII
In the meanwhile Kyr Themistocli had dragged his straw chair outside his door, where, as the house faced west, there was shade for some hours in the morning, and sat waiting. In his hand, he held a piece of bread, but he was not eating it. Not because it was dry, there being no coffee to drink with it; but because for the first time Aleko had not come when he had said he would.