He leant down to the pickpocket. The heaving and gasping had stopped, but he was still making a show of his breathlessness. "That's better," Mallon said. "Can you stand up? Try to stand up. Here," he said, and gripped the pickpocket's arm and forced him upright until he saw his face for the first time. As the pickpocket labored for breath, he gazed up at Mallon with his dark eyes. "How could you?" they asked. Mallon might have said, "Because you tried to steal from me." But he was still conscious of the flush of joy he'd felt when his blow struck home -- when he knew he'd hurt the man. Where that joy came from he couldn't say, but he knew that its roots were deeper than some clumsy failed theft. Fat drops of rain began to patter on the awning  . "How are you?" Mallon said. "Can you walk?" The pickpocket turned away and leant against the store window with both hands, and his head sank lower as his shoulders rose and fell. A gray-haired woman inside the store rapped on the glass and made a shooing motion. When the pickpocket ignored her, she rapped harder and kept rapping. "I have to go," Mallon said. "I'm sorry." He looked up at the sky. "I'm sorry," he said again, and stepped into the rain and walked quickly up the street. One of the Bangladeshi umbrella sellers was working the corner, and Mallon had just paid seven euros when he heard a woman shouting. He didn't want to look back but did. It was the woman from the shop, pushing and batting the pickpocket away from the window while he bent down and covered his head like a boxer trying to get through the last seconds of a round. Mallon slipped his wallet back into his jacket pocket and took the umbrella that the Bangladeshi had opened for him. The pickpocket was out on the sidewalk now, in the rain. The woman stood just under the awning with her arms crossed over her chest. "Excuse me, madam," Mallon said, coming up to them. "This man isn't well. He needs to rest a moment." "I know these people," she said. "Our Romans don't want them here." The rain fell in sheets, ran down the pickpocket's shiny scalp and face, down his leather jacket. "Here," Mallon said, and offered him the umbrella, but he only looked at Mallon with his hurt dark eyes and then lowered his head again. Mallon bumped him in the shoulder with the handle of the umbrella. "Go on -- take it!" he said. And finally, with a beaten, unwilling look, the pickpocket did. And that was when he saw a taxi round the corner with a light glowing on its roof. Mallon ran out waving his arm and the cab turned sharply to the pavement, sending a lot of water over his shoes. He opened the door but couldn't help looking back. The pickpocket had lowered the umbrella to the ground upside down and was leaning on the shaft, head low, neck bared to the sky. "Wait," Mallon said to the driver. He went back and grabbed the pickpocket's sleeve and pulled him to the cab. "Get in," Mallon said, and took the umbrella and pushed him into the back seat. He leaned inside. "O.K., where do you live?" "No Gypsies!" the driver said. He was twisted around, glaring at the pickpocket. "Gypsy? Look, he's not well. I'll pay," Mallon added. The driver shook his head. "No Gypsies. Get him out," Mallon looked at the driver's nameplate: Michele Kadare. "It's the law," he said, "If you don't take us, Signor Kadare, I'll report you and you'll lose your license. Believe me -- I am quite serious." The driver fastened those pale eyes on Mallon and turned and put his hands on the steering wheel. He raised his eyes to the rearview mirror and he and Mallon exchanged stares. "O.K., Mr. American," he said. "You pay." Which of the following can be inferred from the passage?
The taxi didn't take the pickpocket to his house in the end. The pickpocket succeeded in stealing something from Mallon. The pickpocket was a little suspicious of Mallon's intention to help him. The umbrella seller gave an umbrella to Mallon free of charge.