"'Ere's the johns," cried someone.
"Come on, Liz," cried Stinky, and turned to run.
"Cum with yous, yer great 'ulkin', stinkin' coward," cried Pinkey, her face crimson with passion, "yer'll be lucky if y'ain't hung fer murder."
Stinky listened in amazement. Here was another change that he was too dazed to understand, and, hastily grabbing his coat, he ran.
Pinkey ran to Chook's prostrate body, and listened. "I can 'ear 'im breathin'," she cried.
The others listened, and the breathing grew louder, a curious, snoring sound.
"Gorblimey! A knock-out!"
"'E'll be right in a few minutes."
It was true. Stinky, with a haphazard blow, had given Chook the dreaded knock-out, a jolt beside the chin that, in the expressive phrase, "sent him to sleep".
But now the police came up, glad of this chance to show their authority and order the people about. The crowd melted.