A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. She replied softly. "What the devil are you about! Will you allow yourself to be beaten by a couple of kids?" "Not if I can help it," returned Abraham, making a desperate effort to regain his feet. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. Indeed, if he had been ignorant of it, the sound of voices which he could faintly distinguish, would have served as a caution to him. That is all I ask.
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