Dead silence fell on the people around while the man slowly drew his
cart down by the footpath. Then three shots rang out in succession. At
the distance he could not be missed, and it was obvious they were trying
to frighten him. He dropped the shafts, and instead of going away he
walked over to the Volunteers.

"He has a nerve," said another voice behind me.

The man walked directly towards the Volunteers, who, to the number of
about ten, were lining the railings. He walked slowly, bent a little
forward, with one hand raised and one finger up as though he were going
to make a speech. Ten guns were pointing at him, and a voice repeated
many times:

"Go and put back that lorry or you are a dead man. Go before I count
four. One, two, three, four--"

A rifle spat at him, and in two undulating movements the man sank on
himself and sagged to the ground.

I ran to him with some others, while a woman screamed unmeaningly, all
on one strident note. The man was picked up and carried to a hospital
beside the Arts Club. There was a hole in the top of his head, and one
does not know how ugly blood can look until it has been seen clotted in
hair. As the poor man was being carried in, a woman plumped to her knees
in the road and began not to scream but to screetch.

At that moment the Volunteers were hated. The men by whom I was and who
were lifting the body, roared into the railings:--