Her foul flux interrupted, the woman thrusts her red face into the man’s, and hisses half coquettishly, half contemptuously:
“A ride? With you, sweetheart? Sure!”
He grabs her by the shoulder. His face grows pale.
“Come on, now. Move on, I tell you!”
The woman shrieks and struggles.
“Let go! Look what he is doing to me! Who are you? You are not a detective.... Let go!”
The crowd does not stir. Some one yawns desperately. A little boy whimpers, and clings to his dozing mother.
The man drags his shrieking victim. He pulls out a chain of keys, and swings it triumphantly. The woman screams and hits her assailant on the face with her heavy handbag. New figures appear from the adjoining streets. A voice is heard:
“Maybe he is not a detective.... Hey, where’s your star?”
The man’s pale face twitches convulsively. The woman feels encouraged, strikes him short, rapid blows, and shouts wildly: