The crowd slowly dispersed, by no means in good humour; it really appeared as though some among them were of the opinion that Antony Cowlrick had inflicted a personal injury upon them by not having committed a theft and allowing himself to be taken into custody.
“Now, you,” said one of the policemen to Antony Cowlrick, stretching towards him an ominous forefinger, “had better mind what you are about, or you’ll be getting yourself into trouble.”
“Perhaps you will assist me in getting into it,” replied Antony Cowlrick. “You have, up till to-day, done your best, it must be admitted.”
These were the first words our Reporter had heard Antony Cowlrick utter, and they produced a singular impression upon him. The manner of their utterance was that of a gentleman. There was a distinct refinement in the voice and bearing of Antony Cowlrick which strangely contrasted with his miserable appearance.
The policeman had but one answer to this retort.
“Move on!”
“When it suits me,” said Antony Cowlrick. “I am one man, alone and unknown—that hurts you, probably. I am not obstructing the thoroughfare; I am not begging; I am not hawking without a licence; I am doing nothing unlawful. When it suits me to move on, I will move on. In the meantime,” he exclaimed, in an authoritative tone, “move you on!”
The audacity of this order staggered the policemen, and they could find no words to reply.
Antony Cowlrick proceeded:
“If a fresh crowd gathers round us—it is beginning to do so, I perceive—it is you who are collecting it. You have no more right to order me to move on than your comrades had—you are all alike, blue coats, rattles, and truncheons—to arrest me in Great Porter Square.”