persed, fleeing like arrows. I was standing in front of the bookseller's shop, into which my father had gone, and I saw several of my schoolmates coming at a run, mingling with others near me, and pretending to be engaged in staring at the windows: there was Garrone, with his penny roll in his pocket, as usual; Coretti; “Muratorino”; and Garoffi, the boy with the postage-stamps. In the meantime a crowd had formed around the old man, and a policeman and others were running to and fro, threatening and demanding: “Who was it? Who did it? Was it you? Tell me who did it!” and they looked at the boys' hands to see whether they were wet with snow.
Garoffi was standing beside me. I noticed that he was trembling all over, and that his face was as white as that of a corpse. “Who was it? Who did it?” the crowd continue to cry.
Then I overheard Garrone say in a low voice to Garoffi, “Come, give yourself up; it would be cowardly to allow any one else to be arrested.”
“But I did not do it on purpose,” replied Garoffi, trembling like a leaf.
“No matter; do your duty,” repeated Garrone.
“But I have not the courage.”
“Take courage, then; I will accompany you.”
And the policeman and the other people were crying more loudly than ever: “Who was it? Who did it? One of his glasses had been driven into his eye! He has been blinded! The ruffians!”
I thought that Garoffi would fall to the earth. “Come,” said Garrone, resolutely, “I will defend you;” and grasping him by the arm, he thrust him forward,
