The Loom of Destiny
At times, when the roads are not so bad as usual, they deliberately fling mud and stones at the drivers of the carts. When the drivers become angry at this, and hurl pieces of coal at them, they passively gather up the pieces and put them in their two-wheeled carts. If one of the band chances to be hit, the others fight for the piece while he limps away unnoticed. As they rush out, ankle deep in mud, it is a sort of standing joke and a time-honoured custom for the big drivers to cut at the half-bare legs of the ragged youngsters with their great keen, long-lashed whips.
The Child was one of this band, and he stood in the quiet rain watching for his chance. His pudgy face was scratched and bore a scar or two. He gazed out abstractedly from the edge of the broken sidewalk, oblivious of the rain that was soaking through his tattered dress. He could not have been much more than four years of age, and certainly not five. He had no cart, like his more opulent rivals. But, clutched in his chubby little dirt-stained hand, he held a
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