In the group about the door, he passed a youth with tow-white hair and
very pink cheeks. The boy was the earliest to succumb to the temptation
of the moonshine jug, a temptation which would later claim others. He
was reeling crazily, and his albino eyes were now red and inflamed.
Lescott remembered him.
"Thet's ther damned furriner thet's done turned Samson inter a gal,"
proclaimed the youth, in a thick voice.
The painter paused, and looked back. The boy was reaching under his
coat with hands that had become clumsy and unresponsive.
"Let me git at him," he shouted, with a wild whoop and a dash toward
the painter.
Lescott said nothing, but Sally had heard, and stepped swiftly between.
"You've got ter git past me fust, Buddy," she said, quietly. "I reckon
ye'd better run on home, an' git yore mammy ter put ye ter bed."