you might as well think of resisting death when your hour shall come.
“There he is,” observed one of the men, calmly. “Hollo! what’s up?”
“You can’t take him away!” Pennyloaf cried, falling down again by Bob and clinging to him. “He’s ill. You can’t take him like this!”
“Ill, is he? Then the sooner our doctor sees him the better. Up you get, my man!”
But there are some things that even Law and Society cannot command. Bob lay insensible. Shamming? Well, no; it seemed not. Send for a stretcher, quickly.
No great delay. Pennyloaf sat in mute anguish, Bob’s head on her lap. On the staircase was a crowd of people, talking, shouting, whistling; presently they were cleared away by a new arrival of officials. Room for Law and Society!
The stretcher arrived; the senseless body was carried down and laid upon it,—a policeman at each end, and, close clinging, Pennyloaf.
Above the noise of the crowd rose a shrill, wild voice, chanting:
“All ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever!”
