As the light flashed upon the group, one of the men drew his breath sharply between his teeth, and for a space no one stirred.
“Acciden’, gentlemen?” said John Whyley, giving a sniff as if he smelt a warm sixpence, but it was only caused by the soot-charged fog.
The constable’s speech seemed to break the spell, and one of the men spoke out thickly:
“Axe’den’, constable? Yes, it’s all right. Hold him up, Smith. Wants to lie down, constable. Thinks snow is clean sheets.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it, sir?” said John Whyley, examining each face in turn a little suspiciously. “Thought as it was a patient—”
“Yes,” said the man with the moustache, speaking in a high-pitched voice, “doctor keeps some good stuff. Not all physic, policeman. Here, hold up.” This last to the man he was supporting, and upon whose head he now placed a soft felt hat, which he had held in his hand.
“Gent seems rather on, sir,” said John Whyley, going up more closely.
“Ah!” said the first speaker, “you smelt his breath.”
“’Nough to knock you down, sir,” said the constable. “He’ll want to come and see the doctor again to-morrow morning.”
There was a very strong odour of spirits, and in the gloom it did not occur to the constable that the two men who seemed most intoxicated were very bright-eyed, and yet ghastly pale. He merely drew back for the group to pass.