The rest of the afternoon slid fast away. He moved across the pavement with stunning speed, the stab already on its upward travel. I had almost to guess at whom he was staring with such deadly purpose, and no time even to shout a warning. I had eyes only for the boy: his eyes, his hands, his knife. They were incongruously calling me "sir" while treating me with contempt, which if I'd been calm enough for reflection I would have considered fairly normal. I stopped struggling but the policemen didn't let go. The whole party pressed out onto the balcony to watch the race, and because it was a time out of reality Burnt Marshmallow romped home by three lengths. "Are we staking him, or are we not?"ĭissdale's friends returned giggling to disrupt the incautious minute and shortly Gordon, Henry and Lorna crowded in. "How's your cartoonist?" he said genially. In any case the first I knew of their presence was the feel ofviselike hands fastening onto my arms and pulling me backwards. They had seen the melee seen as they supposed a man in morning dress attacking a pedestrian, seen us struggling on the ground. We were both panting but I was taller and stronger and I could have held him there for a good while longer but for the two policemen who had been out on the road directing traffic.
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