it
swept past with a rattle of jolting metal and the hum of swiftly
revolving wheels. The time was come to strike, but the Push hesitated.
The show of resistance, the spark to kindle their brutal fury, was
wanting.

"Is this a prayer meetin'?" inquired Waxy Collins, with a sneer. "Biff
him on the boko, an' we'll finish 'im in one act."

"Shut yer face," said Jonah, and he stepped up to the bricklayer.

"Ever 'ear tell of a copper boiler?" he inquired pleasantly.

"Ever meet a bleedin' bastard as put the cops on a bloke, an' got 'im
three months' 'ard?" he inquired again.

The bricklayer stared at him open-mouthed, surprised and alarmed by the
appearance of this misshapen devil with the glittering eyes. Then a
sudden suspicion ran through the fuddled brain.

"I niver lagged 'im; s'elp me Gawd, I niver put nobody away to the
cops!" he cried.

"Yer rotten liar, take that!" cried Jonah, and struck him full on the
mouth with his fist. The man clapped his hand to his cut lip, and
looked at the blood in amazement. The shock cleared his brain, and he
remembered with terror the tales of deadly revenge taken by the pushes.
He looked wildly for help. He was in a ring of mocking, menacing faces.

"Let 'im out," cried Jonah, in a sharp, strident voice. "The swine
lives about 'ere; give 'im a run for 'is money."

The Push opened out, and the man, sobered by his danger, stood for a
moment with bewildered eyes. Then, with the instinct of the hunted, he
turned for home and ran. The Push gave chase, with Chook in the lead.
Again and again the quarry turned, blindly seeking refuge in the
darkest lanes.

As his pursuers gained on him he gave a hoarse scream--the dolorous cry
of a hunted animal.

But it was the cat playing with the mouse. The bricklayer ran like a
cow, his joints stiffened by years of toil; the larrikins, light on
their feet as hares, kept the pace with a nimble trot, silent and
dangerous, conscious of nothing but the desire and power to kill.

As he turned into Abercrombie Street, Chook ran level with him, then
stooped swiftly and caught his ankle. The bricklayer went sprawling,
and in an instant the Push closed in on the fallen man as footballers
form a scrum, kicking the struggling body with silent ferocity, drunk
with the primeval instinct to destroy.

"Nit!" cried Jonah; and the Push scattered, disappearing by magic over
fences and down lanes.

The bricklayer had ceased to struggle, and lay