ng, me feedle, de monk' he dance and bring in
mon'. Monk' los', Petri keel me."

"The monkey is dead." The words escaped her lips before she thought, but
the frozen horror on the boy's face brought her to her senses, and she
hastily cried, "But he was _so_ sick and hurt! His back was just a mess
of solid sores. It is better that he is dead!"

"Oh, but Petri keel me!"

"Sh! The teachers will hear you if you screech so loud. Come upstairs
with me. Miss Curtis will know what to do. She won't let Petri get you.
Don't be afraid, Jessup. I wouldn't hurt you for the world."

He did not understand half that she said, but the great brown eyes were
filled with sympathy, and with the same instinct which had led the
monkey to leap into her arms a few moments before, the ragamuffin laid
his grimy fists into hers, and she led him up the winding stairs to the
principal's office.

When the worthy lady had heard the queer story, she could only stare
from one child to the other and gasp for breath. Peace was noted for
finding all sorts of maimed birds or sick animals on her way to school,
but never before had she appeared with a human being, and Miss Curtis
almost doubted now that little Giuseppe was a real human. He looked so
pitifully like a scarecrow. What could she do with him? It would be
criminal to let the brutal organ-player get him again if the lad's story
were true, and she did not doubt its truth after the waif had slipped
back his ragged sleeves and showed great, ugly, purple welts across his
naked arms.

"Poor little chap," she murmured. "Poor little chap!" As she gingerly
touched the bony hands, she was seized with a happy inspiration, and
bidding the children sit down till she returned, she entered a little
inner office, and Peace heard her at the telephone. "Give me 9275."

There was a pause; then the child grew rigid with horror. The voice from
the adjoining room was saying, "Is this the Humane Society?"

It was to the Humane Society that Saint John had intended telephoning,
in order that they might come up and kill the poor monkey. Was Miss
Curtis a murderer? Surely Giuseppe was not to be killed, too. Then why
had she telephoned the Humane Society?

Tiptoeing across the floor to the Italian waif's chair, she clutched him
by the hand, dragged him to his feet, and signalling him to be quiet,
she stole cautiously from the room with him in tow. Down the long stairs
they hurried, and out into the bright sunshine, t