"Oi! Gov" nor! The gent with the bald 'ead! For gossake! Oi!"
"What d'ye mean, oi?"
"It's against the LOR."
"What d'ye mean, it's against the law?"
"It's gambling," whispered and blurted the other, his eyes now rolling horribly in articulo mortis. "I wouldn't mind, see, but it's against the LOR. You'll 'ave the coppers on us!"
"Oh, my son! Don't you know no coppers can get in here today?"
"Whassat-forgossake?"
"This here. Lady Brayle—" H.M. was in good voice; it carried far—"thinks people's liberties are bein' interfered with. Couldn't you have guessed that from what she wrote on the posters out there?"
A hum of approval, growing to a roar, spread out over the crowd. Dust and gravel flew. At his last extremity the dying man's eye seemed to catch some flicker beyond, a signal from an arm in a grey-and-black checked sleeve, which said, 'Yes.' The pangs of agony dropped from him.
Whang went the cymbals from an invisible brass-band; and, by one of those inspired coincidences which really do happen, the band crashed into Camptown Races. Martin, his head down and pulling Ruth after him, was fighting his way through a pressing crowd with silver in its hands. His damaged forehead took some dizzying knocks, but he got through.