withered as if scorched in great heats, and the eyes, large and
black, that flashed and flamed with advertisement of an
unquenched inner conflagration. Old she was--Saxon caught herself
debating anywhere between fifty and seventy; and her hair, which
had once been blackest black, was streaked plentifully with gray.
Especially noteworthy to Saxon was her speech. Good English it
was, better than that to which Saxon was accustomed. Yet the
woman was not American. On the other hand, she had no perceptible
accent. Rather were her words touched by a foreignness so elusive
that Saxon could not analyze nor place it.

"Uh, huh," Billy said, when she had told him that evening of the
day's event. "So SHE'S Mrs. Higgins? He's a watchman. He's got
only one arm. Old Higgins an' her--a funny bunch, the two of
them. The people's scared of her--some of 'em. The Dagoes an'
some of the old Irish dames thinks she's a witch. Won't have a
thing to do with her. Bert was tellin' me about it. Why, Saxon,
d'ye know, some of 'em believe if she was to get mad at 'em, or
didn't like their mugs, or anything, that all she's got to do is
look at 'em an' they'll curl up their toes an' croak. One of the
fellows that works at the stable--you've seen 'm--Henderson--he
lives around the corner on Fifth--he says she's bughouse."

"Oh, I don't know," Saxon defended her new acquaintance. "She may
be crazy, but she says the same thing you're always saying. She
says my form is not American but French."

"Then I take my hat off to her," Billy responded. "No wheels in
her head if she says that. Take it from me, she's a wise gazabo."