"Why did you strike me?" repeated the boy dully.
"Calm yourself, my boy," Mrs. Braddock kept repeating insistently,
without raising her voice, always low, tense, impelling.
The tears sprang to his eyes--tears of rage and helplessness. With a
sob he turned away and leaned his head against the pole.
"Poor boy," she whispered.
"Don't you call me a brute, Casey," roared Braddock, turning upon the
contortionist in a fury. Casey had not uttered a word, but Braddock
instinctively anticipated the charge. The contortionist was afraid of
him. He drew back with a scared look in his eyes.
Mrs. Braddock was speaking quietly, compassionately to the suffering
boy. "We must be careful," she said, "not to oppose him too strongly.
Those men are out in front. He will turn you over to them if you
resort to violence. Calm yourself, do. There is still the chance that
he may change his mind. He is not really heartless. It is only his
way."
"Why did he strike me?" again fell from the lips of the fugitive.
At this moment Grinaldi came hurrying in from the ring. He took in the
situation at a glance. Behind him, peering over his shoulder, was a
black-haired young woman in pink tights and spangled trunks.
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