"No; the Push stoushed 'im, an' then cleared."
Someone struck a match and looked at his face; it was smeared with blood. Then the crowd rendered "first aid" in the street fashion.
"Wot's yer name? W'ere d'yer live? 'Ow did it 'appen?"
And at each question they shook him vigorously, impatient at his silence. The buzz of voices increased.
"W'ere's the perlice?"
"Not w'ere they're wanted, you may be sure."
"It's my belief they go 'ome an' sleep it out these cold nights."
"Well, I s'pose a p'liceman 'as ter take care of 'imself, like everybody else," said one, and laughed.
"It's shameful the way these brutes are allowed to knock men about."
"An' the perlice know very well 'oo they are, but they're afraid of their own skins."