Voices and a heavy tread were heard. Distinguishing in that
tread the advancing footsteps of the Law, Creed said: "You attack me if
you dare!"
Hughs dropped his arm. His short, dark face had a desperate look, as of
a caged rat; his eyes were everywhere at once.
"All right, daddy," he said; "I won't hurt you. She's drove my head all
wrong again. Catch hold o' this; I can't trust myself." He held out the
bayonet.
"Westminister" took it gingerly in his shaking hand.
"To use a thing like that!" he said. "An' call yourself an Englishman!
I'll ketch me death standin' here, I will."
Hughs made no answer leaning against the wall. The old butler regarded
him severely. He did not take a wide or philosophic view of him, as a
tortured human being, driven by the whips of passion in his dark blood;
a creature whose moral nature was the warped, stunted tree his life had
made it; a poor devil half destroyed by drink and by his wound. The old
butler took a more single-minded and old-fashioned line. 'Ketch 'old
of 'im!' he thought. 'With these low fellers there's nothin' else to be
done. Ketch 'old of 'im until he squeals.'
Nodding his ancient head, he said:
"Here's an orficer. I shan't speak for yer; you deserves all you'll get,
and more."
Later, dressed in an old Newmarket coat, given him by some client,
and walking towards the police-station alongside Mrs.
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