"Duck him!" (There was not a pond within miles.)
"Jump on him!"
"Down with the police!"
"Welsher!"
"Look!" cried Dashwood.
French, half delirious with delight, French, the winner of a big fortune, to say nothing of the stakes and the glory, was being led from the ring by Mr. Dashwood when they came across a maelstrom of howling humanity, amid which, like rocks, stood forth the helmets of the constables.
"It's a welsher, poor devil!" cried French. "The police have him. Hi! I say—by heavens! it's Giveen!"
He had caught a glimpse for a moment of the face of his cousin. The next he was in amid the throng, helping the police.
"Michael!" yelled the half-naked one. "Lend us a hand, or I'll be torn in bits. Musha! listen to the devils! Help!"
Next moment French was knocked aside. Fourteen constables had charged the crowd like a wedge, and Giveen was surrounded and safe, and being marched off to the lock-up.