Premonitions
frown. With twitching fingers he crept step by step nearer the soap-box and the precious coal chunk. The owner of the cart was still struggling with his cigar stub behind the telegraph pole. The Child put his hand tentatively on the soap-box, and let it rest there a moment with subtle nonchalance. Then he leaned over it. In another second his baby fingers had closed like talons on the coveted chunk of coal. Then he backed off, cautiously, slily, with his eyes ever on the threatening telegraph pole.
Before he could reach his tin pail on the sidewalk the coal king with the cigar stub looked up and saw the Child with the piece of coal. And he saw that it was his coal.
He descended on the fleeing Child like a whirlwind, swearing and screeching as he came.
The Child clutched the chunk of precious wealth to his breast, and ran as he had never run before. But it was useless. The owner of the cart caught him easily in ten yards. He pushed the Child forward on his face, and kicked him two or three times in the
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