t is," said the little ferret-faced man, and stooped to pick up a
cindery cube. He looked at Denton, then at the others.

Slowly, unwillingly, Denton stood up.

A dirty-faced albino extended a hand to the ferret-faced man. "Gimme
that toke," he said. He advanced threateningly, bread in hand, to
Denton. "So you ain't 'ad your bellyful yet," he said. "Eh?"

Now it was coming. "No, I haven't," said Denton, with a catching of the
breath, and resolved to try this brute behind the ear before he himself
got stunned again. He knew he would be stunned again. He was astonished
how ill he had judged himself beforehand. A few ridiculous lunges, and
down he would go again. He watched the albino's eyes. The albino was
grinning confidently, like a man who plans an agreeable trick. A sudden
perception of impending indignities stung Denton.

"You leave 'im alone, Jim," said the swart man suddenly over the
blood-stained rag. "He ain't done nothing to you."

The albino's grin vanished. He stopped. He looked from one to the other.
It seemed to Denton that the swart man demanded the privilege of his
destruction. The albino would have been better.

"You leave 'im alone," said the swart man. "See? 'E's 'ad 'is licks."

A clattering bell lifted up its voice and solved the situation. The
albino hesitated. "Lucky for you," he said, adding a foul metaphor, and
turned with the others towards the press-room again. "Wait for the end
of the spell, mate," said the albino over his shoulder--an afterthought.
The swart man waited for the albino to precede him. Denton realised that
he had a reprieve.

The men passed towards an open door. Denton became aware of his duties,
and hurried to join the tail of the queue. At the doorway of the vaulted
gallery of presses a yellow-uniformed labour policeman stood ticking a
card. He had ignored the swart man's haemorrhage.

"Hurry up there!" he said to Denton.

"Hello!" he said, at the sight of his facial disarray. "Who's been
hitting _you_?"

"That's my affair," said Denton.

"Not if it spiles your work, it ain't," said the man in yellow. "You
mind that."

Denton made no answer. He was a rough--a labourer. He wore the blue
canvas. The laws of assault and battery, he knew, were not for the
likes of him. He went to his press.

He could feel the skin of his brow and chin and head lifting themselves
to noble bruises, felt the throb and pain of each aspiring contusion.
His nervous system slid down to le