The doctor, a tall, athletic young fellow with a keen, intellectual face, pushed his way through the crowd to the corner and dropped on his knees beside the Polak.

“Why, the man is dead!” said the doctor, putting his hand over the Polak’s heart.

Even as he spoke, a shudder passed through the man’s frame, and he lay still.  The doctor examined the hole in his neck.

“Yes, he’s dead, sure enough.  The jugular vein is severed.”

“Well, here is another, Doctor, who will be dead in a few minutes, if I am not mistaken,” said the Sergeant.

“Let me see,” said the doctor, turning to Rosenblatt.  “Heavens above!” he cried, as his knees sank in the bloody mud, “it’s blood!”

He passed round the other side of the unconscious man, got out his syringe and gave him a hypodermic.  In a few minutes Rosenblatt showed signs of life.  He began to breathe heavily, then to cough and spit mouthfuls of blood.

“Ha, lung, I guess,” said the doctor, examining a small clean wound high up in the left breast.  “Better send for an ambulance, Sergeant, and hurry them up.  The sooner we get him to the hospital, the better.  And here is another man.  What’s wrong with him?”

Beyond Rosenblatt lay a black-bearded man upon his face, breathing heavily.  The doctor turned him over.

“He’s alive anyway, and,” after examination, “I can’t find any wound.  Heart all right, nothing wrong with him, I guess, except that he’s got a bad jag on.”

A cursory examination of the crowd revealed wounds in plenty, but nothing serious enough to demand the doctor’s attention.

“Now then,” said the Sergeant briskly, “I want to get your names and addresses.  You can let me have them?” he continued, turning to Jacob.

“Me not know all mens.”

“Go on,” said the Sergeant curtly.

“Dis man Rosenblatt.  Dis man Polak, Kravicz.  Not know where he live.”

“It would be difficult, I am thinking, for any one to tell where he lives now,” said the Sergeant grimly, “and it does not much matter for my purpose.”

“Poor chap,” said the doctor, “it’s too bad.”

“What?” said the Sergeant, glancing at him, “well, it is too bad, that is true.  But they are a bad lot, these Galicians.”

“Poor chap,” continued the doctor, looking down upon him, “perhaps he has got a wife and children.”

A murmur rose among the men.

“No, he got no wife,” said Jacob.

“Thank goodness for that!” said the doctor.  “These fellows are a bit rough,” he continued, “but they have never had a chance, nor even half a chance.  A beastly tyrannical government at home has put the fear of death on them for this world, and an ignorant and superstitious Church has kept them in fear of purgatory and hell fire for the next.  They have never had a chance in their own land, and so far, they have got no better chance here, except that they do not live in the fear of Siberia.”  The doctor had his own views upon the foreign peoples in the West.