Presently they turned into a cross street, where they did not meet so many people. They advanced one square and a half; then suddenly Artie called a halt.
“Stan’ still an’ keep quiet,” he whispered, gripping Guy’s arm warningly. “Don’t make a sound.”
“What’s the matter?” asked the other boy, also in a whisper.
“There’s trouble ahead. Listen.”
Both were silent for some moments, during which they heard voices seemingly not more than twenty feet ahead. One was a gruff, heavy voice and was giving orders. The other vibrated in trembling, whining tones, begging for mercy.
“Don’t take my money, don’t take my money,” it pleaded. “It’s all I’ve got in the world, and I’ll starve.”
“Oh, stow that,” was the merciless answer. “You’ve got plenty where that come from, you old miser. Move out in the middle of the street an’ don’t make another sound or—”
The rest of the sentence, presumably expressing a threat, was inaudible to the boys. Guy’s sympathy was aroused at once.
“We ought to help ’im,” he suggested.
“We’re not going to get mixed up in it,” replied Artie. “Leave it to me.”