‘No—no!’ Pennyloaf whispered in her mother’s ear. ‘They shan’t come in! Don’t stir.’
‘Are you going to open the door?’
It was a different speaker—brief, stern. Ten seconds, and there came a tremendous crash; the crazy door, the whole wall, quivered and cracked and groaned. The crash was repeated, and effectually; with a sound of ripping wood the door flew open and a light streamed into the room.
Useless, Pennyloaf, useless. That fierce kick, making ruin of your rotten barrier, is dealt with the whole force of Law, of Society; you might as well think of resisting death when your hour shall come.
‘There he is,’ observed one of the men, calmly. ‘Hollo! what’s up?’
‘You can’t take him away!’ Pennyloaf cried, falling down again by Bob and clinging to him. ‘He’s ill. You can’t take him like this!’
‘Ill, is he? Then the sooner our doctor sees him the better. Up you get, my man!’
But there are some things that even Law and Society cannot command. Bob lay insensible. Shamming? Well, no; it seemed not. Send for a stretcher, quickly.
No great delay. Pennyloaf sat in mute anguish, Bob’s head on her lap. On the staircase was a crowd of people, talking, shouting, whistling; presently they were cleared away by a new arrival of officials. Room for Law and Society!
The stretcher arrived; the senseless body was carried down and laid upon it—a policeman at each end, and, close clinging, Pennyloaf.