"Do you want some candy? Your uncle has plenty of it," said he,
bending over me, as if to protect me. "Or maybe your feet hurt you?
Let your uncle take you on his arms." As soon as I heard "candy,"
I felt that the man was the Catcher himself, and I tried to break
away. But the "uncle" held me fast. Then I began to yell. It was
near our house, and the people of our alley rushed towards us, some
yelling, some crying, some armed with sticks. Pretty soon I
recognized my mother's voice in the mixture of voices and noises.
You see, peculiar is the charm of a mother's voice: a knife may be
held to one's throat, but the mere sound of mother's voice awakens
new courage and begets new hope. Mother made a way for herself, and
fell upon the Catcher like a wild beast. She struck, she pinched,
she scratched, she pulled his hair, she bit him. But what can a
woman do in the line of beating? Nothing! Her neighbors joined
her, one, two, three; and all tried hard to take me out of the hands
of the Catcher. What can a few women do against one able-bodied
man? Nothing at all! That happened during the dinner hour. One of
our neighbors got the best of the Catcher, a woman who happened
rather to dislike me and my mother; they quarreled frequently.
Perhaps on account of this very dislike she was not over-excited,
and was able to hit upon the right course to take at the critical
moment. She went to our house, took in one hand a potful of roasted
groats, ready for dinner, and in the other a kettle of boiling
water. Unnoticed she approached the Catcher, spilled the hot groats
upon his hands, and at the same time she poured the boiling water
over them. A wild yell escaped from the mouth of the Catcher--and I
was free.--