So he lay down, and at length fell into a sort of semi-consciousness, still pressing his fists into his abdomen, and feeling as he imagined a woman might feel after her first child, as if something had been ripped out of him. He was vaguely aware of the rage and chaos in the dark city round him, the terror of the clashing chaos. But what was the good even of being afraid?--even of grief? It was like a storm, in which he could do nothing but lie still and endure and wait. “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Perhaps it is the bitterest part, to keep still through it all, and watch and wait. In a numb half-sleep Richard lay and waited--waited for heaven knows what. It seemed a long time. Then he heard voices. There was Jack and Jaz and one or two others--loud voices. Presently Jack and Jaz came in to him. Jack had a big cut on the chin, and was pale as death. There was blood on his coat, and he had a white pocket-handkerchief round his neck, having lost his collar. He looked with black eyes at Richard. “What time is it?” asked Richard. “Blowed if I know,” answered Jack, like a drunken man. “Half past eleven,” said Jaz quietly. Only an hour--or an hour and a half. Time must have stood still and waited. “What has happened?” asked Richard. “Nought!” blurted Jack, still like a drunken man. “Nought happened. Bloody blasted nothing.” “Kangaroo is shot,” said Jaz. “Dead?” “No--o!” snarled Jack. “No, damn yer, not dead.” Somers looked at Jaz. “They’ve taken him home--shot in the belly,” said Jaz. “In his bloomin’ Kangaroo guts,” said Jack. “Ain’t much left of the ant that shot ’im, though--neither guts nor marrow.” Richard stared at the two men. “Are you hurt?” he said to Jack. “Me? Oh, no, I just scratched myself shaving, darling. Making me toilet.” There was silence for some time. Jaz’s plump, pale face was still impassive, inscrutable, and his clothing was in order. Jack poured himself a half-glass of neat whiskey, put in a little water, and drank it off. “And Willie Struthers and everybody?” asked Richard. “Gone ’ome to his missis to have sausage for tea,” said Jack. “Not hurt?” “Blowed if I know,” replied Jack indifferently, “whether he’s hurt or not.” “And is the town quiet?” Somers turned to Jaz. “Has everything blown over? What has happened?” “What has happened exactly I couldn’t tell you. I suppose everything is quiet. The police have everything in hand.” “Police!” snarled Jack. “Bloody Johnny Hops! They couldn’t hold a sucking pig in their hands, unless somebody hung on to its tail for them. It’s our boys who’ve got things in hand. And handed them over to the Hops.” Somers knew that Johnny Hops was Australian for a policeman. Jack spoke in a suppressed frenzy. “Was anybody killed?” Somers asked. “I’m sure I hope so. If I haven’t done one or two of ’em in I’m sorry. Damned sorry. Bloody sorry,” said Jack. “I should be careful what I say,” said Jaz.