boy had cherished with minute care... as if the features had been
stamped--one flashing stroke--upon his brain, and disappeared. There
could be no doubt of them--the description of the child was perfect--red
cherries, grey coat--and floating curls. He seemed to see the face
before him as he talked--and the face of the big man at her left, with
red moustache and sharp chin--and the smaller man beside her, who
had clapped his hand across her mouth and glared at the boy on the
ground--his eyes were black--yes, and he wore a cap--pulled down, and
collar up--you only saw the eyes--black as--The boy had looked about him
a minute, and pointed to the shoes of the chief of police gleaming
in the sunlight--patent leathers, and dress suit, hurried away from
a political banquet the night before. The men smiled and the pencils
raced.... There had been another man who drove the machine, but the boy
had not noticed him--his swift glance had taken in only the child, it
seemed, and the faces that framed her.

A little later they drove into the city--the boy accompanying them, and
the surgeon and Achilles, who had hurried out with the first news and
had listened to his son's story with dark, silent eyes. He sat in the
car close to Alcibiades, one hand on the back of the seat, the other
on the boy's hand. Through the long miles they did not speak. The boy
seemed resting in his father's strength. It was only when they reached
the scene of his disaster that he roused himself and pointed with
quick finger--to the place where he had fallen.... He was pushing his
cart--so--and he looked up--quick--and his cart went--so!--and all his
fruit, and he was down--looking up--and the car went by, close.... Which
way?--He could not tell that--no.... He shut his eyes--his face grew
pale. He could not tell.

The street forked here--it might have been either way--by swerving