“That’s the man who abused me in Denmark!” she said. “Oh, Palla, look at him! Do you really believe you could educate a thing like that!”
The man had wriggled free, and now he turned a flat, whiskered visage on Palla, menaced her with both soiled fists, inarticulate in his fury.
But police were everywhere, now, sweeping this miniature riot from the avenue, hustling the Reds uptown, checking the skylarking soldiery, sending amused or indignant citizens about their business.
A burly policeman said to Ilse with a grin: “I’ll take what’s left of that red flag, Miss;” and the girl handed it to him still laughing.
Soldiers wearing overseas caps cheered her and Palla. Everybody on the turbulent sidewalk was now laughing.
“D’yeh see that blond nab the red flag outer that big kike’s fists?” shouted one soldier to his sweating bunkie. “Some skirt!”
“God love the Bolsheviki she grabs by the slack o’ the pants!” cried a blue-jacket who had lost his cap. A roar followed.
“Only one flag in this little old town!” yelled a citizen nursing a cut cheek with reddened handkerchief.
“G’wan, now!” grumbled a policeman, trying to look severe; “it’s all over; they’s nothing to see. Av ye got homes–––”
“Yip! Where do we go from here?” demanded a marine.