shelves, a fat merchant stood at bay, silent, quick-eyed, apprehensive.
Before him, like an actor in a mad scene, a sobbing ruffian, naked to
the waist, convulsed with passion, brandished wild fists and ranted with
incredible sounds. When breath failed, he staggered, gasping, and swept
his audience with the glazed, unmeaning stare of drink or lunacy. The
merchant spoke up, timid and deprecating. As though the words were
vitriol, the other started, whirled face to face, and was seized with a
new raving.

Something protruded at his waistband, like a rudimentary, Darwinian
stump. To this, all at once, his hand flung back. With a wrench and a
glitter, he flourished a blade above his head. Heywood sprang to
intervene, in the same instant that the disturber of trade swept his arm
down in frenzy. Against his own body, hilt and fist thumped home, with
the sound as of a football lightly punted. He turned, with a freezing
look of surprise, plucked at the haft, made one step calmly and
tentatively toward the door, stumbled, and lay retching and coughing.

The fat shop-keeper wailed like a man beside himself. He gabbled,
imploring Heywood. The young man nodded. "Yes, yes," he repeated
irritably, staring down at the body, but listening to the stream
of words.

Murmurs had risen, among the goblin faces blinking in the doorway.
Behind them, a sudden voice called out two words which were caught up
and echoed harshly in the street. Heywood whipped about.

"Never called me that before," he said quickly. "Come outside."

He flung back a hurried sentence to the merchant, caught Rudolph's arm,