“Work, you blackguards,” yelled a voice. “Do the dirty work. You’re the suckers that keep the poor people down!”
“May God starve ye yet,” yelled an old Irish woman, who now threw open a nearby window and stuck out her head.
“Yes, and you,” she added, catching the eye of one of the policemen. “You bloody, murtherin’ thafe! Crack my son over the head, will you, you hardhearted, murtherin’ divil? Ah, ye——”
But the officer turned a deaf ear.
“Go to the devil, you old hag,” he half muttered as he stared round upon the scattered company.
Now the stones were off, and Hurstwood took his place again amid a continued chorus of epithets. Both officers got up beside him and the conductor rang the bell, when, bang! bang! through window and door came rocks and stones. One narrowly grazed Hurstwood’s head. Another shattered the window behind.
“Throw open your lever,” yelled one of the officers, grabbing at the handle himself.
Hurstwood complied and the car shot away, followed by a rattle of stones and a rain of curses.
“That — — — —— hit me in the neck,” said one of the officers. “I gave him a good crack for it, though.”
“I think I must have left spots on some of them,” said the other.