ple Simon had an appointment here. The
boys were to be out that night. Jimmie Flanagan, their leader, had
passed the word to Simon that something would be doing, something worth
being in. For that night was to witness the complete and enthusiastic
bashing of Henry Wiggin, the copper's nark, the most loathed and
spurned of all creeping things that creep upon the earth.

Simon walked like a lamb into the arms of trouble. He strolled along the
main street, peering every yard of his way through the writhing gloom.
Nobody was about. He reached Bell Yard, and turned into it. Then he
heard something. Something that brought him to a sharp halt. Before he
saw or heard anything more definite, he felt that he was surrounded. To
place direction of sound was impossible. He heard, from every side, like
the whisper of a load of dead leaves, the rush of rubber shoes. With
some agility he leaped to what he thought was the clear side, only to
take a tight arm like a rope across his chest and another about his
knees.

"There's one fer yew, 'Enry!" cried a spirited voice as a spirited palm
smote him on the nose.

"Hi! Hi! Easy!" Simon appealed. "I ain't 'Enry, dammit! You're bashing
me--me--Simon!" He swore rather finely; but the fog, the general
confusion, and, above all, the enthusiasm of bashing rendered
identification by voice impracticable. Indeed, if any heard it, it had
no effect; for, so they had some one to bash, they would bash. It didn't
matter to them, just so it was a bash. Flanagan heard it quite clearly,
but he knew the madness of attempting to stop eleven burly Hoxton yobs
once they were well in....

"I'm not 'Enry. I ain't the nark!" But he was turned face downward, and
his mouth was over a gully-hole, so that his protests scared only the
rats in the sewer. He set his teeth, and writhed and jerked and swung,
and for some seconds no bashing could proceed, for he was of the stuff
of which swordsmen are made--small, lithe, and light: useless in a
stand-up fight with fists, but good for anything in a scrum. When,
however, as at present, eleven happy lads were seeking each a grip on
his person, it became difficult to defeat their purpose. But at last, as
he was about to make a final wrench at the expense of his coat, the
metal tips on his boots undid him. He dug his heels backward to get a
purchase, he struck the slippery surface of the kerb instead of the
yielding wood of the roadway, and in a moment he was down beyond all