“Gimme the baby,” demanded Josephine.  She attempted to pull the carriage away from Maria, but Maria, although her strength was inferior, had spirit enough to cope with any poor white.  Her little fingers clutched like iron.  “I shall not give her up until four o’clock,” said she.  “Go back to the corner.”

Josephine’s only answer was a tug which dislodged Maria’s fingers and hurt her.  But Maria came of the stock which believed in trusting the Lord and keeping the powder dry.  She was not yet conquered.  The right was clearly on her side.  She and Josephine had planned to meet at the corner at four o’clock, and it was not quite half-past three, and she had given Josephine half a pound of chocolates.  She did not stop to reflect a moment.  Maria’s impulses were quick, and lack of decision in emergencies was not a failing of hers.  She made one dart to the rear of Josephine.  Josephine wore her hair in a braided loop, tied with a bow of black ribbon.  Maria seized upon this loop of brown braids, and hung.  She was enough shorter than Josephine to render it effectual.  Josephine’s head was bent backward and she was helpless, unless she let go of the baby-carriage.  Josephine, however, had good lungs, and she screamed, as she was pulled backward, still holding to the little carriage, which was also somewhat tilted by the whole performance.

“Lemme be, you horrid little thing!” she screamed, “or I’ll tell your ma.”

“She isn’t my mother,” said Maria in return.  “Let go of my baby.”

“She is your ma.  Your father married her, and she’s your ma, and you can’t help yourself.  Lemme go, or I’ll tell on you.”

“Tell, if you want to,” said Maria, firmly, actually swinging with her whole weight from Josephine’s loop of braids.  “Let go my baby.”

Josephine screamed again, with her head bent backward, and the baby-carriage tilted perilously.  Then a woman, who had been watching from a window near by, rushed upon the scene.  She was Gladys Mann’s mother.  Just as she appeared the baby began to cry, and that accelerated her speed.  The windows of her house became filled with staring childish faces.  The woman, who was very small and lean but wiry, a bundle of muscles and nerve, ran up to the baby-carriage, and pulled it back to its proper status, and began at once quieting the frightened baby and scolding the girls.

“Hush, hush,” cooed she to the baby.  “Did it think it was goin’ to get hurted?” Then to the girls:  “Ain’t you ashamed of yourselves, two great girls fightin’ right in the street, and most tippin’ the baby over.  S’posin’ you had killed him?”

Then Josephine burst forth in a great wail of wrath and pain.  The bringing down of the carriage had increased her agony, for Maria still clung to her hair.

“Oh, oh, oh!” howled Josephine, her head straining back.  “She’s most killin’ me.”

“An’ I’ll warrant you deserve it,” said the woman.  Then she added to Maria—­she was entirely impartial in her scolding—­“Let go of her, ain’t you shamed.”  Then to the baby, “Did he think he was goin’ to get hurted?”