“Let him come on! Let him come on like
a man! Take that, you ruffian, and that!”
Gammon, knowing the conflict grossly unequal, did
not scruple to fight his own way. Polperro, wildly
thrashing about him with both fists, excited wrath
in every direction. There was a general scrimmage;
shouts of rage mingled with wild laughter; the throng
crushed this way and that. Grappling in his own
defence with a big brute who had clutched his throat,
Gammon saw Polperro go down. It was his last
glimpse of the unfortunate man. Fighting savagely
he found himself borne far away by an irresistible
rush, and when he had lost sight of his foe he tried
vainly to return to the place where Polperro had fallen.
The police were now interfering, the crowd swayed
more violently than ever, and began to scatter itself
in off-streets.
From church towers of east and west chimes rang merrily
for the New Year. Softly fell the snow from a
black sky, and was forthwith trodden into slush.
Though he was badly mauled and felt sick Gammon would
not abandon the hope of discovering his friend.
After resting for a few minutes against the front
of a shop he moved again into the crowd, now much
thinner, and soon to be altogether dispersed.
The helmets of policemen drew him in a certain direction;
two constables were clearing the way, and he addressed
them, asking whether they had seen a bareheaded man
recently damaged in a fight.
“There’s been a disturbance over yonder,”
one replied, carelessly pointing to a spot where other
helmets could be discerned.
Thither Gammon made his way. He found police
and public gathered thickly about some person invisible;
a vigorous effort and he got near enough to see a
recumbent body, quite still, on which the flakes of
snow were falling.
“Let me look at him,” he requested of
a constable who would have pushed him away. “It’s
a friend of mine, I believe.”
Yes, it was Lord Polperro, unconscious, and with blood
about his mouth.
The police were waiting as a matter of professional
routine to see whether he recovered his senses; they
had, of course, classed him as “drunk and incapable.”
“I say,” Gammon whispered to one of them,
“let me tell you who that is.”
The conference led to the summoning of a cab, which
by police direction was driven to the nearest hospital,
St. Bartholomew’s. Here Gammon soon learnt
that the case was considered serious, so serious that
the patient has been put to bed and must there remain.
Utterly done up Gammon threw himself into the cab
to be driven to Kennington Road. When he reached
Mrs. Bubb’s he was fast asleep, but there a
voice addressed him which restored his consciousness
very quickly indeed.
HIS LORDSHIP RETIRES
It was the voice of Greenacre, unsteady with wrath,
stripped utterly of its bland intonations.
