But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. Abruptly would come the end. Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things.
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