Horace. Accident, I suppose. Yes, man run over. Silly fool to get in the way.
Messenger. Can’t you help?
Horace. Oh, no, there’s a crowd around him already. It’s all right. They’ll take him to the hospital.
Messenger. Surely you might give some assistance.
Horace. No. I should only be in the way. The police will attend to it. It’s their business. Oh, confound it! They are bringing him this way.
(Enter crowd of people, men and women, carrying a wounded man. Murmurs of pity and sympathy from all.)
Omnes. Poor feller! Lord help ’im! Why can’t they look where they’re a driving to?
Wounded Man. Put me down, put me down, Mates! I can’t stand it!
First Man. Lend a coat, somebody! We can’t put him down in the snow.
Messenger. Lend yours.