Jim Silver turned. Somewhere in the middle of that tossing mass was a human being.
Using his strength remorselessly, the young man broke his way through. By the time he reached the centre of the maelstrom the police had cleared a space round the fallen man.
He lay panting in the mud, a desolate and dreadful figure, his waistcoat burst open, and shirt protruding, his shock of red hair a-loose on the ground.
Jim was not the first to get to the fallen man.
Monkey Brand was already kneeling at his side, bottle in hand.
"Oh, my! Mr. Joses, my!" the little jockey was saying. "What you want is just a drop o' comfort out o' me bottle. Open a little, and I'll pour."
Silver was just in time.
"That'll do, Brand," he said. "I'll see to this. Give me the bottle. You go to Miss Boy."
A doctor was called in and reported that the fat man's condition was serious. An ambulance was brought, and Joses removed.
Silver saw it off the ground.