They didn’t let him rise; they didn’t so much as pull him to his feet. They dragged him by his collar, by his hair, by his arms, by his legs, by anything they could seize, kicking, beating, and cursing him. He made no outcry; he didn’t speak a word. For aught they knew, he might be drunk or insane or dead. Only once, when a man kicked him in the face, was he powerless to suppress a groan. Otherwise, he was just a sodden lump of flesh as, now head first, now feet first, now with face upward, now with face downward he was tugged and tumbled and hurtled and rolled over the five hundred yards of slime between the spot where they had caught him and the road. There he had a new experience. He learned what it was not only to be outside the human race, but to be held as its foe. Already, while still far out on the marsh, he had heard the yells: "Kill him! Kill him! Kick the damn skunk to death!" But when actually surrounded by these howling, screaming, outraged citizens, with their teams and motor cars banked in the roadway, he tasted the peculiar astonishment of the man who has always been liked when assailed by a storm of hatred. While the three or four police who by this time had appeared did their best to defend him, men fought with one another to get at him. A well-dressed girl of not more than eighteen reached over the shoulder of one of the police and struck him on the head with her sunshade. An elderly woman squeezed herself near him and spat in his face. "Ah, say, people," one of the police called out, "give the young guy a chanst. Can’t you see he’s only a kid?" "’Kid’ be damned!" came the response. "Say, fellows, here’s the telegraph pole! Let’s lynch him!" "Lynch him! Lynch him! String him up!" "No! Let’s make a bonfire and burn him alive!" "Chuck the cops into the Hackensack, and then we can do as we like." "Lynch him! Lynch him! Lynch him!" Teddy didn’t care whether they lynched him or not. In as far as he could form a wish he wished they would; but then he was past forming wishes. They could string him up to the telegraph pole or burn him alive just as they felt inclined; for he had traveled beyond fear. Just then the crowd parted, the police van drove up, and his protectors dragged him to its shelter. Even then there was a new sensation in store for him. The parting of the crowd showed Flynn lying by the roadside, also waiting for the van. He was on his back, his knees drawn up, his mouth dropped open. Waistcoat and shirt had been torn apart, and Teddy saw a red spot. He started back. Except for the groan when he had been kicked in the face, it was the only time he opened his lips. "I didn’t do that!" he cried, so loud that a jeer broke from the crowd. A policeman shook him by the arm. "Say, sonny, you didn’t do that?" Appalled by the sight of the dead man, Teddy could do no more than stupidly shake his head. "Then who in hell did? Tell us that."