“Don’t you know?” replied Laura, looking wonderingly at him. “There’s a little boy at their house!”
The crowd was hooting and cheering and the procession was just ready to turn into the court house corner, when Grant felt Laura’s quick hand clasp. Grant was staring at Kenyon, white and wild-eyed, standing near them on the curb.
“Yes,” he said in a low voice, “I see the poor kid.”
“No–no,” she cried, “look down the block–see that electric! There comes father, bringing mother back from the depot–Oh, Grant–I don’t mind for me, I don’t mind much for father–but mother–won’t some one turn them up that street! Oh, Grant–Grant, look!”
Less than one hundred feet before them the electric runabout 571was beginning to wobble unsteadily. The guiding hand was trembling and nervous. Mrs. Nesbit, leaning forward with horror in her face, was clutching at her husband’s arm, forgetful of the danger she was running. The old Doctor’s eyes were wide and staring. He bore unsteadily down upon the procession, and a few feet from the head of the line, he jumped from the machine. He was an old man, and every year of his seventy-five years dragged at his legs, and clutched his shaking arms.
“Joe Calvin–you devil,” he screamed, and drew back his cane, “let her go–let her go.”
The crowd stood mute. A blow from the cane cracked on the young legs as the Doctor cried:
“Oh, you coward–” and again lifted his cane. Joe Calvin tried to back the prancing horse away. The blow hit the horse on the face, and it reared, and for a second, while the crowd looked away in horror, lunged above the helpless old man. Then, losing balance, the great white horse fell upon the Doctor; but as the hoofs grazed his face, Kenyon Adams had the old man round the waist and flung him aside. But Kenyon went down under the horse. Calvin turned his horse; some one picked up the fainting youth, and he was beside Mrs. Nesbit in the car a moment later, a limp, unconscious thing. Grant and Laura ran to the car. Dr. Nesbit stood dazed and impotent–an old man whose glory was of yesterday–a weak old man, scorned and helpless. He turned away trembling with a nervous palsy, and when he reached the side of the machine, his daughter, trying to hide her manacled hand, kissed him and said soothingly:
“It’s all right, father–young Joe’s vexed at something I said down in the Valley; he’ll get over it in an hour. Then I’ll come home.”
“And,” gasped Mrs. Nesbit, “he–that whippersnapper,” she gulped, “dared–to lay hands on you; to–”