Vicious, spiteful-looking youths, young brutes in a gang and in the right mood, were simply people. Crazy mixed-up kids? Young fools, who needed sharp treatment and firm discipline, who had as much good as bad in them if only it could be brought out. They began to move away, the threatening circle had broken already. The women were back in their houses, and soon one came running with a bright red eiderdown, which looked like the blood of a dozen men as the sunlight streamed upon it. She put it over the injured man and tucked it in, and Rollison stood up, glad to ease his knees. He took a gold case out of his pocket, lit a cigarette, and for the first time wiped his forehead, using the back of his hand. The sweat lay cold on his hand. He drew deeply on the cigarette, then looked at the nearest of three elderly men. Not far away, half a dozen others were running, and behind these Ebbutt came in an old T model Ford, the most ancient in London, and the smartest; the sun was shining brightly on its sky blue sides.

“Who saw that lunatic of a lorry driver?” Rollison asked, as if it did not occur to him that this had been done deliberately. “Anyone get the number?”

No one spoke.

“What happened?” one of the older men asked.

“Damned fool came round that corner as if he was racing at Donnington,” Rollison said. He was smoking more freely, and the tension had gone from his whole body. “The motor cyclist had just passed me. He was looking over his shoulder, or wouldn’t have got in my way. I think he’ll be all right,” he added, “it looks that way to me.” He glanced towards the Model T seeing Ebbutt’s set face as he pulled into the kerb, and then climbed out clumsily. He took the situation in at a glance, and the expression that came to his eyes was one almost of wonderment. Other men from the Blue Dog, all Ebbutt’s cronies, were very near. The last vestige of danger had gone, for all of these men trained in Ebbutt’s gymnasium, and included some of the best boxers in London.