Then ’Arry ’Awkins came beating his way through the mob that hemmed the boy in, caught the lad by the collar, struck out and smote somebody in the face, and yanked Frank away.
Breathless, bewildered, at a loss to understand it, Frank allowed the man from Deptford to force a road through the mob and pull him after.
The swaying mass dissolved in a moment, and it seemed that nothing unusual had occurred; but a boy stood looking at his wrist, where there were fingerprints that sunk deep into the flesh.
The grip of doom! What did it mean? Frank asked himself the question. He had not seen the owner of that death-cold hand, but the icy touch had sent a shudder to his heart.
“Hexcuse me, sir,” said Mr. ’Awkins; “but I saw as ’ow you was being ’ustled and I gave you a ’and. ’Ave you lost your purse?”
“I never carry a purse in such places.”
“Which is wise of you, young sir. I feared as ’ow you ’ad lost your purse.”
And then, before the boy could say more, the man from Deptford slipped away and was quickly lost in the crowd.
Frank moved toward the coaches, wondering over what had happened. He understood that it could not be a joke, as it was not probable he would be singled out as the victim for such a jest in that great gathering. If not a joke, then there was surely some deep significance in it all.
And why had ’Arry ’Awkins rushed to his assistance? Had the tout struck the owner of that dead-cold hand?