On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. By now the horses would be rested and he might go as swiftly back again. No Cantonese was in those days permitted to cross to the Sha-mien after sunset without a license. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. "Ruth?" he called. So good an opportunity may never occur again.
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