But these last words were the man's undoing. If he had not talked of smashing faces, Aleko might not have thought of it, but as he stood there, his head thrown back, his blue eyes glittering with rage, some familiar words flashed across his mind. "Straight out from the shoulder, Aleko! Follow your blow! Come with it!" All encumbrances were flung aside; newspapers were carried away by the breeze, a shower of coffee fell on the ground from a burst paper bag, and straight as a dart, and steady, and strong, the boy's fist flew out from his shoulder with all the weight of the sturdy little body behind it, and landed with crashing force on the man's chin. The man staggered back, striking his head against the iron bars of the cart, and went down like a tree that is felled. VIII In the meanwhile Kyr Themistocli had dragged his straw chair outside his door, where, as the house faced west, there was shade for some hours in the morning, and sat waiting. In his hand, he held a piece of bread, but he was not eating it. Not because it was dry, there being no coffee to drink with it; but because for the first time Aleko had not come when he had said he would. It was long past the hour for morning newspapers. Other boys had cried them up and down the street, but now they had ceased. Two or three times the old man muttered to himself:-- "He is a child! May he not forget sometimes?" but in a moment he would rise from his chair, and feeling with one hand for the wall of the houses, he would advance slowly down the narrow street and listen to the noises that came from the wider one and the square beyond. Fish was being cried, fresh from Phalerum, and summer vegetables of all kinds, greens for salad, and fruit. "Cool, cool mulberries!" cried a man with a good tenor voice, making a song of the words. "Black are the mulberries! Sweet are the mulberries! Buy mulberries! Cool, cool mulberries!" Then an old voice quavered out, "Pitchers from Ægina! Pitchers for cold water! Big pitchers! Little pitchers!" But no one cried newspapers. The hour for them was long past, and slowly, and stumblingly, Kyr Themistocli found his way back to his straw chair. The sun was gaining on the shade. "He will not come now before the afternoon," muttered the old man; but still he did not go indoors. Suddenly, a voice hailed him close at hand. "Good day to you, Kyr Themistocli!" It was not Aleko's voice. It was a man's voice; a voice he knew. "How is it that you are sitting outside at this hour? The sun will be on your head in a moment." The old man stretched out a groping hand in the direction of the voice. "Is it you, Nico? You are welcome. Yes, I will go indoors just now. But you? How come you here at this time? How is it you are not at the Bank?" "I have no head for business this morning, Kyr Themistocli; I saw you sitting here as I passed by the end of the street and I came to wish you good morning." "Are you not well, Nico?"