“Was he by himself?” asked the manager.

“No, sir.  There was two gentlemen with him.”

“And where are they?”

No one knew; a voice said: 

“Give him air.  He’s fainted.”

The ring of onlookers distended and closed again elastically.  A dark medal of blood had formed itself near the man’s head on the tessellated floor.  The manager, alarmed by the grey pallor of the man’s face, sent for a policeman.

His collar was unfastened and his necktie undone.  He opened eyes for an instant, sighed and closed them again.  One of gentlemen who had carried him upstairs held a dinged silk hat in his hand.  The manager asked repeatedly did no one know who the injured man was or where had his friends gone.  The door of the bar opened and an immense constable entered.  A crowd which had followed him down the laneway collected outside the door, struggling to look in through the glass panels.

The manager at once began to narrate what he knew.  The costable, a young man with thick immobile features, listened.  He moved his head slowly to right and left and from the manager to the person on the floor, as if he feared to be the victim some delusion.  Then he drew off his glove, produced a small book from his waist, licked the lead of his pencil and made ready to indite.  He asked in a suspicious provincial accent: 

“Who is the man?  What’s his name and address?”

A young man in a cycling-suit cleared his way through the ring of bystanders.  He knelt down promptly beside the injured man and called for water.  The constable knelt down also to help.  The young man washed the blood from the injured man’s mouth and then called for some brandy.  The constable repeated the order in an authoritative voice until a curate came running with the glass.  The brandy was forced down the man’s throat.  In a few seconds he opened his eyes and looked about him.  He looked at the circle of faces and then, understanding, strove to rise to his feet.

“You’re all right now?” asked the young man in the cycling- suit.

“Sha,’s nothing,” said the injured man, trying to stand up.

He was helped to his feet.  The manager said something about a hospital and some of the bystanders gave advice.  The battered silk hat was placed on the man’s head.  The constable asked: 

“Where do you live?”

The man, without answering, began to twirl the ends of his moustache.  He made light of his accident.  It was nothing, he said:  only a little accident.  He spoke very thickly.

“Where do you live” repeated the constable.

The man said they were to get a cab for him.  While the point was being debated a tall agile gentleman of fair complexion, wearing a long yellow ulster, came from the far end of the bar.  Seeing the spectacle, he called out: 

“Hallo, Tom, old man!  What’s the trouble?”

“Sha,’s nothing,” said the man.