The Scapegoat

Who would not have pity for a poor, helpless victim? Nobody--except another poor victim!


excerpt

The old guy didn't have a chance. All he could do was shield his head with limp arms and moan, while this other fellow--a young, husky six-footer--gave him a vicious, cold-blooded beating.


"Hey, there!" I yelled indignantly. "Cut it out!"


But the kid kept belting away, as if he were methodically working out on a fifty-pound training bag. Finally, the old man sagged to the pavement. Then this hoodlum began to kick him.


I'm not a hero. I'm a newspaper man whose job it is to look at things objectively. But I know right from wrong.


My one punch caught the young bruiser back of the ear and spilled him on the ground. He lay there for a moment, then rolled over. Even by the street light, it was easy to see his eyes were glassy.


 It gave me lots of satisfaction. I'm not a big man--just compact--but I take care of myself. I don't drink or smoke and I exercise regularly. The result is I can handle myself in the clinches.


The kid sat up and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. I could see now that he was a college boy. The red sweater with the terrycloth border and the white pants with a shortened left leg were a dead giveaway.


"Listen here," I said roughly, "you nuts? Beating up an old man!"


He appeared to be desperately searching for an explanation--something to say. Then, abruptly, without having uttered a sound, he reeled away and shambled hurriedly down the street.