A workman, with a bag of tools over his shoulder, answered me.
‘There’s something wrong with someone. Policeman says he’s drunk, but he looks to me as if he was something worse.’
‘Will you let me pass, please?’
When they saw I was a woman, they permitted me to reach the centre of the crowd.
A man was lying on his back, in the grease and dirt of the road. He was so plastered with mud, that it was difficult, at first, to be sure that he really was a man. His head and feet were bare. His body was partially covered by a long ragged cloak. It was obvious that that one wretched, dirt-stained, sopping wet rag was all the clothing he had on. A huge constable was holding his shoulders in his hands, and was regarding him as if he could not make him out at all. He seemed uncertain as to whether it was or was not a case of shamming.
He spoke to him as if he had been some refractory child.
‘Come, my lad, this won’t do!—Wake up!—What’s the matter?’
But he neither woke up, nor explained what was the matter. I took hold of his hand. It was icy cold. Apparently the wrist was pulseless. Clearly this was no ordinary case of drunkenness.
‘There is something seriously wrong, officer. Medical assistance ought to be had at once.’
‘Do you think he’s in a fit, miss?’