The fight melted. Somebody turned Dicky on his back, and he moaned, and
lay gasping. He lifted his dabbled hands, and looked at them, wondering.
They tried to lift him, but the blood poured so fast that they put him
down. Somebody had gone for a surgeon.
'Take me 'ome,' said Dicky, faintly, with an odd gurgle in his voice.
'Not 'awspital.'
The surgeon came running, with policemen at his heels. He ripped away
the clothes from about the wound, and shook his head. It was the lung.
Water was brought, and cloths, and an old door. They put Dicky on the
door, and carried him toward the surgery; and two lads who stayed by him
were sent to bring his friends.
The bride and bridegroom, meeting the news on the way home, set off at a
run, and Father Sturt followed.
'Good Gawd, Dicky,' cried Poll, tearing her way to the shutter as it
stopped at the surgery door, 'wot's this?'
Dicky's eye fell on the flowered bonnet that graced the wedding, and his
lip lifted with the shade of a smile. 'Luck, Pidge!'
He was laid out in the surgery. A crowd stood about the door, while
Father Sturt went in. The vicar lifted his eyebrows questioningly, and
the surgeon shook his head. It was a matter of minutes.
Father Sturt bent over and took Dicky's hand. 'My poor Dicky,' he said,
'who did this?'
'Dunno, Fa'er.'
The lie--the staunch Jago lie. Thou shalt not nark.
'Fetch mother an' the kids. Fa'er!'
'Yes, my boy?'
'Tell Mist' Beveridge there's 'nother way out--better.'