"He's all right," said a voice. "He's opening his eyes."
"Serve him well right," said a second.
His mates were standing about him. He made an effort and sat up. He put his hand to the back of his head, and his hair was wet and full of cinders. A laugh greeted the gesture. His eye was partially closed. He perceived what had happened. His momentary anticipation of a final victory had vanished.
"Looks surprised," said some one.
"'Ave any more?" said a wit; and then, imitating Denton's refined accent.
"No, thank you."
Denton perceived the swart man with a blood-stained handkerchief before his face, and somewhat in the background.
"Where's that bit of bread he's got to eat?" said a little ferret-faced creature; and sought with his foot in the ashes of the adjacent bin.
Denton had a moment of internal debate. He knew the code of honour requires a man to pursue a fight he has begun to the bitter end; but this was his first taste of the bitterness. He was resolved to rise again, but he felt no passionate impulse. It occurred to him—and the thought was no very violent spur—that he was perhaps
