But Charley did not get up.
There was a confused murmur that gradually grew to dismay. Those nearest the door went out, and those surrounding the boxer dragged him quickly after them, as the landlady—summoned by the barmaid—came hastily round to the front.
She threw a scathing word at the gaping knot of ne’er-do-wells that was left. In a moment the place was cleared of all but one man, who knelt with her beside the prostrate body: it was young Preston.
“Shall I fetch the doctor?” he said.
“The barmaid’s gone,” answered the woman.
She did what she could for him, but she shook her head.
Once he opened his eyes, but his mind was gone before.
“Is it a boy or a girl, Bess?” he said. And then he murmured—“Bless you—my wife!”
It was his last word.
When the doctor ran in it was too late; Charley Chiswick was dead. He had struck his head in falling against the iron of the fender; and there was another cause too—a faulty heart. It wouldn’t even be manslaughter at the inquest.