She had said this last aloud. “Yes,” Merry answered, “cheerful and kind. Very considerate of one another. It is as if suffering, hunger, rags, disease, brought friends who cannot be bought with gold.”
“It is true. And such a beautiful truth. I—”
Petite Jeanne broke short off, then dodged quickly to one side. She had barely escaped being run down by an automobile. Coming in from behind, the driver had not honked his horn.
The man was large. The companion at his side was large. The bright blue car was large. The whole outfit fairly oozed comfort, riches and self-satisfaction.
“Stand gawking around and you’ll get a leg taken off!” The driver’s voice was harsh, unkind. He spoke to the little French girl.
The hot fire that smouldered behind Angelo’s dark eyes blazed forth.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” he demanded in a fury. “Running people down! Crowding them about! You with your big car! If you want to gaze, why don’t you walk as we do?”
The car came to a halt. A deep flush had spread over the driver’s face. Springing from the car, he launched a blow that sent the slight Italian youth spinning into the crowd behind him.
But what was this? Hardly had the man swayed back, a leer of satisfaction on his face, than a whirling catapult launched itself upon him. A circle of steel closed about his neck. He found himself whirling through space. He landed with a mighty clatter atop a pile of frying pans and stew kettles.
Quickly scrambling to his feet, he glowered at the gathering throng as he demanded,