"'E insulted the uniform, sir," came the husky justification compounded of alcohol, fear and regard for Grayle's red band and tabs.
"I know all about that. Clear out and take your friends with you. He's not dead," he added a moment later, when we were alone, contemptuously exploring the body with his toe. "I don't suppose he's even badly hurt. I propose to leave him here and tell one of the Bobbies at the House——"
There was a groan as the toe glided on to an injured part. I asked the man where he was hurt, and at sound of my voice he opened his eyes, looked round for a moment and closed them again. I was as yet far from used to the dim light from the shrouded street-lamps and could only see that he looked a man between twenty and thirty, shockingly thin of body, with fair hair, dark blue eyes and a narrow face with high cheek bones. His air and costume were generally threadbare. More from policy than compassion Grayle relented somewhat.
"I'll mount guard," he said. "Get hold of a Bobby and a stretcher."
3
To be involved, however innocently, in a street brawl is considerably more characteristic of Vincent Grayle than of myself. I think that he should have discontinued the habit at least when he reached the age of fifty, but I know well that he only regretted his late arrival.
"They keep a stretcher at the House, don't they?" he asked, as he bared his crop of yellow hair to the wind and lit a cigarette in preparation for his vigil by the recumbent agitator. "If not, telephone Cannon Row."
I was starting on my way when I collided with a young man who had joined us unperceived. He was in evening dress with an overcoat across his arm and a sombre-eyed Saint Bernard at his side.
"Someone hurt?" he enquired, after waving away my apologies. "I thought I heard the word 'stretcher.'"
"It was only a street row," Grayle explained callously. "This fellow thought fit to address an anti-recruiting meeting, and his points weren't very well taken."