"Ahhhhh," he said. "Whum-whum-whum. Awww, jawww ..."
Brett stooped quickly. "I'm sorry," he cried. He looked around. "Help! This man ..."
Nobody was watching. The next man, a few feet away, stood close against his neighbor, hatless, his jaw moving.
"This man's sick," said Brett, tugging at the man's arm. "He fell."
The man's eyes moved reluctantly to Brett. "None of my business," he muttered.
"Won't anybody give me a hand?"
"Probably a drunk."
Behind Brett a voice called in a penetrating whisper: "Quick! You! Get into the alley...!"
He turned. A gaunt man of about thirty with sparse reddish hair, perspiration glistening on his upper lip, stood at the mouth of a narrow way like the one Brett had come through. He wore a grimy pale yellow shirt with a wide-flaring collar, limp and sweat-stained, dark green knee-breeches, soft leather boots, scuffed and dirty, with limp tops that drooped over his ankles. He gestured, drew back into the alley. "In here."
Brett went toward him. "This man ..."