A Damsel in Distress

The man with the collar-studs made another diagnosis. He was seeing

clearer and clearer into the thing every minute.

"Looney!" he decided. "This 'ere one's bin moppin' of it up, and

the one in the keb's orf 'is bloomin' onion. That's why 'e 's

standin' up instead of settin'. 'E won't set down 'cept you bring

'im a bit o' toast, 'cos he thinks 'e 's a poached egg."

George beamed upon the intelligent fellow.

"Your reasoning is admirable, but--"

He broke off here, not because he had not more to say, but for the

reason that the stout young man, now in quite a Berserk frame of

mind, made a sudden spring at the cab door and clutched the handle,

which he was about to wrench when George acted with all the

promptitude and decision which had marked his behaviour from the

start.

It was a situation which called for the nicest judgment. To allow

the assailant free play with the handle or even to wrestle with him

for its possession entailed the risk that the door might open and

reveal the girl. To bust the young man on the jaw, as promised, on

the other hand, was not in George's eyes a practical policy.

Excellent a deterrent as the threat of such a proceeding might be,

its actual accomplishment was not to be thought of. Gaols yawn and

actions for assault lie in wait for those who go about the place

busting their fellows on the jaw. No. Something swift, something

decided and immediate was indicated, but something that stopped

short of technical battery.

George brought his hand round with a sweep and knocked the stout

young man's silk hat off.

The effect was magical. We all of us have our Achilles heel,

and--paradoxically enough--in the case of the stout young man that

heel was his hat. Superbly built by the only hatter in London who

can construct a silk hat that is a silk hat, and freshly ironed by

loving hands but a brief hour before at the only shaving-parlour in

London where ironing is ironing and not a brutal attack, it was his

pride and joy. To lose it was like losing his trousers. It made him

feel insufficiently clad. With a passionate cry like that of some

wild creature deprived of its young, the erstwhile Berserk released

the handle and sprang in pursuit. At the same moment the traffic

moved on again.

The last George saw was a group scene with the stout young man in

the middle of it. The hat had been popped up into the infield,

where it had been caught by the messenger boy. The stout young man

was bending over it and stroking it with soothing fingers. It was

too far off for anything to be audible, but he seemed to George to

be murmuring words of endearment to it. Then, placing it on his

head, he darted out into the road and George saw him no more. The

audience remained motionless, staring at the spot where the

incident had happened. They would continue to do this till the next

policeman came along and moved them on.