The thief looked at him with a
half-laugh and obeyed, as if he felt
the uselessness of a struggle. He
was not more than twenty-five years
old, and his eyes were cavernous with
want. He had the face of a man
who might have belonged to a better
class. When he had uttered the
exclamation invoking the infernal
regions he had not dropped the
aspirate.
"I 'm as hungry as she is," he
raved.
"Hungry enough to rob a child
beggar?" said Dart.
"Hungry enough to rob a starving
old woman--or a baby," with
a defiant snort. "Wolf hungry--
tiger hungry--hungry enough to
cut throats."
He whirled himself loose and
leaned his body against the wall,
turning his face toward it. Suddenly
he made a choking sound
and began to sob.
"Hell!" he choked. "I 'll give
it up! I 'll give it up!"
What a figure--what a figure, as
he swung against the blackened wall,
his scarecrow clothes hanging on him,
their once decent material making
their pinning together of buttonless
places, their looseness and rents showing
dirty linen, more abject than any
other squalor could have made them.
Antony Dart's blood, still running
warm and well, was doing its normal
work among the brain-cells which
had stirred so evilly through the night.
When he had seized the fellow by
the collar, his hand had left his
pocket. He thrust it into another
pocket and drew out some silver.
"Go and get yourself some food,"
he said. "As much as you can eat.
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