THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
was a peach those days—red cheeks, black eyes, and all that. A great kid."
"Are you afraid of me?" she asked.
He thought for a while. "Well, sometimes."
"A brother should never be afraid of his sister."
"I know it. But there's something in your eyes, once in a while, that makes me feel like beetles with pins in 'em."
"You are a brave man. Tell me the whole story. I like stories where men do unselfish things."
"I guess Tommy told all there was to tell. I walloped the three leaders, and after that there was no more Black Hand around our neighborhood. They're up in Sing Sing. Scum! Think of it; squeezing the hearts of mothers! Aw, it would make any white man fighting mad. And say, maybe that scrap wasn't fun! Did you ever get so mad that it made you happy? Well, that was me."
A curious wish rushed into the girl's heart. To see him in action, fighting with his bare fists against odds! It was an idle, purposeless wish, and she was almost instantly ashamed of it. Indeed, she searched in vain for the cause. She detested brutality. She was always rather severe with the pugnacious pupils at school. It was perfectly human that young boys should fight among themselves; nevertheless, she did what she could to prevent these miniature wars. And here she was wishing to see this Hercules of the water-pipes in a fight against odds. The puzzle of it was
125
