nglesby's
power was always behind him. So when Jan chose to get very drunk, and
sang long, monotonous songs, particularly when he sang through his
teeth, lugubriously:

"_Yeszeze Polska nie Zginela
Poki my Zygemy_ ..."

men and women trembled. Poland might not be lost, but somebody's skin
always paid for that song.

In passing one morning--it was a holiday--through the Poles' quarters,
an unpleasant enough stretch which other folks religiously avoided,
the Butterfly Man heard shrieks coming from Michael Karski's back
yard. It was Michael's wife and children who screamed.

"It is the Boss who beats Michael, Meester Fleent," a man volunteered.
"The Boss, he is much drunk. Karski's woman, she did not like the ways
of him in her house, and Michael said, 'I will to send for the
police.' So Big Jan beats Michael, and Michael's woman, she hollers
like hell."

John Flint knew inoffensive, timid Michael; he knew his broad-bosomed,
patient, cowlike wife, and he liked the brood of shockheaded
youngsters who plodded along patient in old clothes, bare-footed, and
with scanty enough food. He had made a corn-cob doll for the littlest
girl and a cigar-box wagon with spool wheels for the littlest boy.
Perhaps that is why he turned and went with the rest to Michael's yard
where Big Jan was knocking Michael about like a ten-pin, grunting
through his teeth: "Now! Sen' for those policemens, you!"

Michael was no pretty thing to look upon, for Jan was in an uglier
mood than usual, and Michael had greatly displeased him; therefore it
was Michael's turn to pay. Nobody interfered, for every one was
horribly afraid Big Jan would turn upon _him_. Besides, was not he the
Boss, and could he not say Go, and then must not a man go, short of
pay, and with his wife and children crying? Of a verity!

The Butterfly Man slipped off his knapsack and laid his net aside.
Then he pushed his way through the scared onlookers.

"Meester Fleent! For God's love, save my man, Meester Flint!"
Michael's wife Katya screamed at him.

By way of answer Meester Fleent very deliberately handed her his
eye-glasses. Then one saw that his eyes, slitted in his head, were
cold and bright as a snake's; his chin thrust forward, and in his red
beard his lips made a straight line like a clean knife-cut. Two
bright red spots had jumped into his tanned cheeks. His lean hands
balled.

He said no word; but the crumpled thing that was Michael was of a
sudden pluc