The people were thronging up
the street, elbowing each other, treading on each other's toes, yelling,
booing, forgetful of all save the strange coincidence that, on this
evening of all others, the banquet in honor of Clive, the Indian hero,
had been interrupted by the sudden appearance of a live Indian in their
very midst.
A curious change had come over the demeanor of the stranger, who hitherto
had been so silent, so detached in manner, so unmoved. He was now to be
seen energetically forcing his way toward the outskirts of the crowd,
heaving, hurling, his long arms sweeping obstacles aside. His eyes
flashed fire upon the yokels skurrying before him, a vitriolic stream of
abuse scorched their faces as he bore them down.
At length he stopped suddenly, caught a hulking farmer by the shoulder,
and, with a violent twist and jerk, flung him headlong among his fellows.
Released from the man's grasp, a small negro boy, his eyes starting, his
breast heaving with terror, sprang to the side of his deliverer, who
soothingly patted his woolly head, and turned at bay upon the crowd, now
again pressing near.
"Back, you boobies!" he shouted. "'Tis my boy! If a man of you follows
me, I'll break his head for him."
He turned and, clasping the black boy's hand close in his, strode away
towards the waiting cart. The crowd stood in hesitation, daunted by the
tall stranger's fierce mien. But one came out from among them, a slim boy
of some fifteen years, who had followed at the heels of the stranger and
had indeed assisted his progress.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25