Gypo grunted and hitched up his trousers. He put his hand to his head to settle his hat jauntily before leading the way back. But instead he uttered an oath. His little round torn hat was not there. His massive round skull stood bare under the night. It stood naked, hummocked and gashed here and there, like a badly shorn sheep. He traversed the skull with his right palm, in little flurried rushes, as if he had had a vague suspicion that the hat was hiding somewhere along the expanse of skull. Then he set out at a wild rush down the lane, followed by the crowd, to retrieve the hat, as if his life depended on it. For the first time, since Gallagher had given his word, terror again invaded his mind. If they discovered the hat they might be able to discover the identity of that ponderous fellow who had gone into the police-station. . . . But no. He rushed into the road and brought up with a slither of his right foot on the wet pavement. The hat was lying in the gutter before his eyes. It lay crushed beside a flattened little cardboard chocolate box and an orange skin. It had been trodden on by a small bare foot. The impress of a wet heel was on its right side. He grabbed it up hurriedly, punched it into shape and crammed it on to his skull with both hands. Then he laughed aloud and turned to the people. “I thought I had lost it,” he cried affectionately. “I had it this two years.” The crowd gaped at the hat as if it had magical properties. Others who had run up without knowing what had already happened gaped at Gypo’s humpy face, at his ruminative eyes and his eyebrows that were like snouts, at the red fat backs of his hands, as he held them to his throat tightening the white woollen muffler about his neck. There were agitated whispers on the outskirts of the ragged crowd. “He’s stronger than any bull.” “How? Why? What did he do?” from a dozen throats. “Wait till I tell ye. I saw him with me own eyes send Scrapper Moloney o’ the B Division flyin’ over his shoulder like a man divin’ off the Bull Wall. I declare to me——” “I know him well. He used to be a bobby himself once. His name is Nolan. Gypo Nolan. Didn’t ye ever hear of him?” “Sure; usen’t he be pals with Frankie McPhillip that was shot to-day?” “Sure I was,” broke in Gypo, overhearing the remark; “an’ when ye speak o’ the dead, ye might add Lord Have Mercy on him.” “Hear, hear,” cried several voices. “Hit him a puck in the jaw. Who is he?” A noisy argument and a scuffle arose. The culprit was hustled away, kicked and struck about the face, until he made his escape by running at full speed up the lane. Then they all crowded around Gypo again. He stood head and shoulders above them, revelling in the attention he was attracting. He stood so impassively with his arms folded, that he might be mistaken for a great scowling statue at a distance. Then he suddenly raised his right hand and made a circular movement with it.