"I want my money."
"I haven't got your money. I'm lookin' for a big man with a red face and a——"
"Here you are. Fifteen bob. Satiety for a place."
"Here you are. Forty-five half-crowns for Garryowen."
"Go to blazes with you!" shouted Mr. Giveen to the ring of individuals surrounding his tub and demanding their money. "Who are you taking me for?"
"He's got the bag," shouted one voice.
"He was with the other chaps," shouted another.
"Welsher!" cried a third, and at the last cry Mr. Giveen was off his tub and being hustled. The bag was plucked from him and opened.
Then the real business began, and where the police came from it would be impossible to say, but they were only in time to save Mr. Giveen's shirt and trousers. His coat and waistcoat and hat had vanished utterly and like smoke when four stalwart constables surrounded him and began to fight for his life. Several other welshers in the neighbourhood had done their business and got clean away; the crowd was in a nasty temper, for they had lost over the favourite, and the gods, with a certain poetic justice, had offered up Giveen as a dripping roast to the fury of the people.
"Pull him in pieces!"