"First, then, you are said to have been smuggling
firearms into this district. What are they
wanted for?"
"T-t-to k-k-kill rats with."
"That is a terrible answer. Are all your fellow-men
rats in your eyes if they cannot think as you do?"
"S-s-some of them."
Montanelli leaned back in his chair and looked
at him in silence for a little while.
"What is that on your hand?" he asked
suddenly.
The Gadfly glanced at his left hand. "Old
m-m-marks from the teeth of some of the rats."
"Excuse me; I was speaking of the other
hand. That is a fresh hurt."
The slender, flexible right hand was badly cut
and grazed. The Gadfly held it up. The wrist
was swollen, and across it ran a deep and long
black bruise.
"It is a m-m-mere trifle, as you see," he said.
"When I was arrested the other day,--thanks to
Your Eminence,"--he made another little bow,--
"one of the soldiers stamped on it."
Montanelli took the wrist and examined it
closely. "How does it come to be in such a state
now, after three weeks?" he asked.
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