nearer. He had noticed a fleck of red on the
matted beard, where the lip had been bitten into. Also he saw that the
Professor, whose gaze had so timorously shifted from his, was intent,
recognizing danger; intent, and unafraid before the threat.

"She used to cry fer it, my woman. Cry fer the morpheean like a baby."
He sagged a step forward. "She don't haff to cry no more. She's dead."

Whence had the knife leapt, to gleam so viciously in his hand? Almost as
swiftly as it was drawn, the healer had snatched one of the heavy
torch-poles from its socket. Almost, not quite. The fury leapt and
struck; struck for that shining waistcoat, upon which his regard had
concentrated, with an upward lunge, the most surely deadly blow known to
the knife-fighter. Two other movements coincided, to the instant. From
the curtain of cheesecloth the slight form of a boy shot upward, with
brandished arms; and the square-built man reached the Hardscrabbler's
jaw with a powerful and accurate swing. There was a scream of pain, a
roar from the crowd, and an answering bellow from the quack in midair,
for he had launched his formidable bulk over the rail, to plunge, a
crushing weight, upon the would-be murderer, who lay stunned on the
grass. For a moment the avenger ground him, with knees and fists; then
was up and back on the platform. Already the city man had gained the
flooring, and was bending above the child. There was a sprinkle of blood
on the bright, rough boards.

"Oh, my God! Boy-ee! Has he killed you?"

"No: he isn't killed," said the stranger curtly. "Keep the people back.
Lift down that torch."

The Professor wavered on his legs, grasping at the rail for support.

"You _are_ a doctor?" he gasped.

"Yes."

"Can you save him? Any money--"

"Set the torch here."

"Oh, Boyee, Boyee!" The great, dark man had dropped to his knees, his
face a mask of agony.

"Oh, the devil!" said the physician disgustedly. "You're no help. Clear
a way there, some of you, so that I can get him to the hotel." Then, to
the other. "Keep quiet. There's no danger. Only a flesh wound, but he's
fainted."

Carefully he swung the small form to his shoulder, and forced a way
through the crowd, the little girl, who had followed him to the
platform, composedly trotting along in his wake, while the
Hardscrabbler, moaning from the pain of two broken ribs, was led away by
a constable. Some distance behind, the itinerant wallowed like a drunken
man, muttering