struggle. A foot landed feelingly against his ribs, another took him on
the face; and for all that they were rubbered they stung horribly. Then,
with two pairs of feet on his stomach, and two on his legs, he heard
that wild whisper that may unnerve the stoutest--

"Orf wi' yer belts, boys!"

The bashing of the nark was about to begin. There was a quick jingle as
many leather belts were loosed, followed by a whistle, and--_zpt_! he
received the accolade of narkhood. Again and again they came, and they
stung and bit, and he could not move. They spat all about him. He swore
crudely but sincerely, and if oaths have any potency his tormentors
should have withered where they stood. Two and three at a time they
came, for there were eleven of them--Flanagan having discreetly
retired--and all were anxious to christen their nice new belts on the
body of the hated nark; and they did so zealously, while Simon could
only lie still and swear and pray for a happy moment that should free
one of his hands....

He knew it was a mistake, and he kept his temper so far as possible. But
human nature came out with the weals and bruises. He didn't want to do
the dirty on them, he didn't want to take extreme steps, but dammit,
this was the frozen limit. He knew that when their mistake was pointed
out they would offer lavish apologies and pots of four-'arf, but the
flesh is only the flesh.

"Turn the blanker over!"

In that moment, as he was lifted round, his left hand was freed. In a
flash it fumbled at his breast. Twisting his head aside, he got
something between his teeth, and through the fetid fog went the shiver
and whine of the Metropolitan Police Call. Three times he blew, with the
correct inflection.

At the first call he was dropped like a hot coal. From other worlds
came an answering call. He blew again. Then, like thin jets of water,
whistles spurted from every direction. He heard the sound of scuttering
feet as his enemies withdrew. He heard the sound of scuttering feet as
they closed in again. But he was not waiting for trouble. He pulled his
burning self together, and ran for the lights that stammered through the
gloom at the Britannia. He whistled as he ran. Curses followed him.

At the Britannia he collided with a slow constable. He flung a story at
him. The constable inspected him, and took notes. The lurking passages
began to brighten with life, and where, a moment ago, was sick torpidity
was now movement, clamour. Di