He got off his bicycle, and pushed it on to the grass and carefully propped it against the elm tree. The figure on the bench did not move. “Now then, sir, wake up!” said the Constable, kind but reproving. “Can't spend the night here, you know!” He laid his hand on the sagging shoulder, and gave it a slight shake. “Come along, sir, you'll be better off at home, you will.” There was no response, and he shook the shoulder rather harder, and put one arm around the man to hoist him. There was still no response, but an arm which had lain across its owner's knees was dislodged, and hung dangling, the hand brushing limply against the Constable's trousers. The Constable bent, peering into the downcast face, and sought in his pocket for his torch. The light flashed on, and the Constable stepped back rather quickly. The figure on the bench, disturbed by his shaking, toppled over sideways, its feet still held in the stocks. “Gawd!” whispered Police-Constable Dickenson, feeling his mouth to be very dry all at once, “Oh, Gawd!” He did not want to touch the figure again, or even to go nearer, because there was something sticky on his hands, and he had never seen a dead man before.
He stooped, and rubbed his hand on the grass, telling himself he was a proper softy. But he hadn't been expecting it, and his stomach had kind of turned over. Made a chap feel sick for a minute; it was like as if one's innards took a jump into one's chest. Breathing a little jerkily he went up to the figure again, and ran his torch over it, and rather gingerly touched one of the slack hands. It wasn't exactly cold, not clammy, like you read about in books, but just cool. He didn't know but that he wouldn't rather it had been icy. That faint warmth was nasty, somehow.