her arm. "You're on the force to protect women. You—I'll see you smashed for this."
Officer Corrigan laughed nastily. And, as if bent on choking that ugly sound, out of the darkness of the stairway came a leaping figure. One machine-like blow and Ivy was free. She shrank back into the shadows, watching the blonde boy in action, fascinated. Unconsciously, keeping her eyes on the fray before her, she assured herself that the tam-o'-shanter was securely in position, hiding all her hair. And instinctively she drew farther back into the shadows, seeking a hiding place. She knew that whichever man was victorious she must not be found. But she crouched behind a fence to watch the struggle because she could not bring herself to run away.
The man from whom she had fled was proving himself a match for the burly policeman. After that one blow, delivered with all the force in him, he was in the grip of the bigger man.
"Blow your whistle," he panted as he locked his left arm in Officer Corrigan's right to prevent his reaching for the club behind him. "Make a row. Go on! I dare you!"
The officer struggled on in silence. Back they went against the railing that bordered the terraced street. Below them were the roofs of squalid houses and beyond that the great expanse of the city. The rail was stout iron yet it quivered under the weight thrown against it. Officer Corrigan was heavy. And for that reason—for his weight was fat, and malt liquor fat at that—Officer Corrigan began to puff and weaken. Swiftly the blonde boy's right arm went under the stout policeman's left armpit up to the shoulder. His chest pressed tight against the officer's; the moving arm came up behind Officer Corrigan's neck, then to the left side of it, and the hand slipped in front of his throat close under his chin. Officer Corrigan found his head going back, his chin up, his back bending backward. He attempted to relieve the strain and straighten up by stepping backward and away from the tense-faced, stern-jawed figure. His foot struck the other's foot placed behind him, and down he fell like a slaughtered bull, on his back.
The boyish man stood over him.
"Get up, scum! Get up and get out. Complain and howl for help if you dare. Come on! Up!" And he stirred the prostrate bully with his foot. Up clambered the fallen guardian of the law's majesty, pale of face and gasping.
"I—I'm—going—to die," Ivy heard him whimper, breathing jerkily.
"I hope so," said the stern figure over him. "But I'm afraid not. Haven't you ever had the wind knocked out of you before? Move on, officer. Move on!" Whining and cowed, Officer Corrigan moved.
The boy wiped the palm of his hand over his brow and laughed mirthlessly. He looked about him slowly, turned toward Ivy's hiding place and took a few doubtful steps. She knew he was looking for the man who could criticise his pictures.
"Girl!" he called. "Hello! Where are you, girl? Where are you?"
Crouched behind her fence, Ivy felt her heart leap as never in her happy
