“Let yer old dad in, boy! Gimme a chance!... Oh, Gawd. They nearly ’ad me. I done a murder. Just ’ad time to run. Old Borden told me you’d gone with the Chinks. ’Elp me, boy, ’elp me. Don’t let ’em git me. They’ll ’ang me. _’Ang_ me. Oh, Christ—they’re _coming_!” His voice rose to a scream. “Don’t go back on me. Gimme a chance to hide. Keep ’em back while I get wind. I can’t run no more. Go out, and ’it ’em, boy. You can. Stand by yer dad!” But the Croucher was not wanting these appeals. Already he had dragged the old man up, and sat him in a chair. Now there was a fury of police whistles spurting into the night like water on a fire. The anger of the streets came to them in throbbing blasts. The Croucher slipped to the window. From under his coat he drew a Smith-Wesson. The old man stretched a stupid hand. “D—d—d—don’t! Don’t shoot ’em. Fight ’em!” “Blast you—and shut up!” snapped the Croucher. “It’s all right. It’ll just stop ’em. It’s blanks.” He raised the gun to the broken pane and fired, twice. It did stop ’em. It wasn’t blank. It was ball. The leading officer went down and out. The next man took his bullet in the thigh. Both tumbled ridiculously, and the crowd behind gyrated on them like a bioscope “comic.” Those who were able sorted themselves out and ran zealously home. The others remained to struggle and to pray. “Bloody fool!” cried the old man. “You done it now. Oh, Christ. We both done a murder now. Gawd ’elp us!” “Damn good job!” Stumpley, the elder, collapsed in his chair again, his face white and damp with sweat. The Chinks waited, as ever, impassive. The Croucher stood out, alert, commanding. “Bolt the door,” said the Croucher. “Clamp the windows,” said the Croucher. “Light the lamp,” said the Croucher. The door was bolted, the windows clamped, the lamp lit. The four men regarded one another. Behind them, in the shaking shadow, stood Beryl Hermione Maud. Then the Croucher saw her. “Send the girl upstairs,” he said; and she went.