"Impossible." said the proprietor, oilily. "Excellence understands—the law—"
Beauling choked with rage.
"Put me down, Mr. Beauling," said Jack, faintly. When he was down he stood as upright as he could.
"Sir," he said, in pure Italian—the holy flame of tongues had lighted on that child's head—"I am not going to die yet awhile."
"It is enough," said the proprietor. "The little excellence is greatly wasted, and will surely die. I cannot take them."
The woman cried bitterly. The child reeled to a rush-bottomed chair and flopped down. Beauling reached out, got his fingers in the Italian's collar, and with one movement jerked him clear over the top of the desk, and landed him, a mass collapsing into itself with terror, and on the verge of apoplexy. He loosed his hold, and after a time the dark blood, brought leaping to the Italian's face, began to stream back into his body, purpling the veins of the neck as it passed
