The soiled person shoved a fist and a bad cigar under Winthrop’s nose.
“Has he got any friends?” he mocked. “Sure, he’s got friends, and they’ll fix you, all right.”
“Sure!” echoed the crowd.
The man was encouraged.
“Don’t you go away thinking you can come up here with your buzz wagon and murder better men nor you’ll ever be and——”
“Oh, shut up!” said Winthrop.
He turned his back on the soiled man, and again appealed to the crowd.
“Don’t stand there doing nothing,” he commanded. “Do you want this man to die? Some of you ring for an ambulance and get a policeman, or tell me where is the nearest drug store.”
No one moved, but every one shouted to every one else to do as Winthrop suggested.
Winthrop felt something pulling at his sleeve, and turning, found Peabody at his shoulder, peering fearfully at the figure in the street. He had drawn his cap over his eyes and hidden the lower part of his face in the high collar of his motor coat.