" 'Ello, Barney," she said. " 'Ere 's
a gent warnts a mug o' yer best.
I've 'ad a bit o' luck, an' I wants
one mesself."
"Garn," growled Barney. "You
an' yer luck! Gent may want a
mug, but y'd show yer money fust."
"Strewth! I've got it. Y' aint got
the chinge fer wot I 'ave in me 'and
'ere. 'As 'e, mister?"
"Show it," taunted the man, and
then turning to Dart. "Yer wants
a mug o' cawfee?"
"Yes."
The girl held out her hand
cautiously--the piece of gold lying
upon its palm.
"Look 'ere," she said.
There were two or three men
slouching about the stand. Suddenly
a hand darted from between
two of them who stood nearest, the
sovereign was snatched, a screamed
oath from the girl rent the thick
air, and a forlorn enough scarecrow
of a young fellow sprang away.
The blood leaped in Antony Dart's
veins again and he sprang after him
in a wholly normal passion of
indignation. A thousand years ago--as
it seemed to him--he had been a
good runner. This man was not one,
and want of food had weakened him.
Dart went after him with strides
which astonished himself. Up the
street, into an alley and out of it, a
dozen yards more and into a court,
and the man wheeled with a hoarse,
baffled curse. The place had no
outlet.
"Hell!" was all the creature said.
Dart took him by his greasy collar.
Even the brief rush had left him feeling
like a living thing--which was
a new sensation.
"Give it up," he ordered.
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