While the unhappy Steve, shrieking prayers and curses, was struggling vainly to extricate himself from the hands gripping his ankles, Annette Perrotte, stepping smartly along the street on her way from the box factory, came past the entrance to the lane. By her side strode a broad-shouldered, upstanding youth. Arrested by Steve's outcries and curses she paused.
“What are those boys at, I wonder?” she said. “There's that big lout of a Wigglesworth boy. He's up to no good, I bet you.”
“Oh, a kids' row of some kind or ither, a doot,” said the youth. “Come along.”
“He's hurting someone,” said Annette, starting down the lane. “What? I believe it's that poor child, Steve Wickes.” Like a wrathful fury she dashed in upon Sam and his company of tormentors and, knocking the little ones right and left, she sprang upon Sam with a fierce cry.
“You great brute!” She seized him by his thatch of thick red hair and with one mighty swing she hurled him clear of Steve and dashed him head on against the lane fence. Sheer surprise held Sam silent for a few seconds, but as he felt the trickle of warm blood run down his face and saw it red upon his hand, his surprise gave place to terror.
“Ouw! Ouw!” he bellowed. “I'm killed, I'm dying. Ouw! Ouw!”
“I hope so,” said Annette, holding Steve in her arms and seeking to quiet his sobbing. But as she saw the streaming blood her face paled.
“For the love of Mike, Mack, see if he's hurt,” she said in a low voice to her companion.
“Not he! He's makin' too much noise,” said the young man. “Here, you young bull, wait till I see what's wrang wi' ye,” he continued, stooping over Sam.
“Get away from me, I tell you. Ouw! Ouw! I'm dying, and they'll hang her. Ouw! Ouw! I'm killed, and I'm just glad I am, for she'll be hung to death.” Here Sam broke into a vigorous stream of profanity.