"And tell them, too," said the doctor in a high, clear voice,
"there is a man dying over there that I have got to attend to
right now, and I haven't time for this foolishness."

As he spoke, he once more bored his way through the crowd to the
side of Rosenblatt, who was continuing to gasp painfully and spit
blood. The moment of danger was past. The excited crowd settled
down again into an appearance of stupid anxiety, awaiting they
knew not what.

"Now then," said the Sergeant, turning to the Dalmatian who had
recovered consciousness and was standing sullen and passive. He had
made his attempt for liberty, he had failed, and now he was ready
to accept his fate. "Ask him what is his name," said the Sergeant.

"He say his name John Jarema."

"And what has he got to say for himself?"

At this the Dalmatian began to speak with eager gesticulation.

"What is he saying?" enquired the Sergeant.

"Dis man say he no hurt no man. Dis man," pointing to the dead
Polak, "play cards, fight, stab knife into his arm," said Jacob,
pulling up the Dalmatian's coat sleeve to show an ugly gash in the
forearm. "Jarema hit him on head, shake him bad, and trow him in
corner on noder man."

Again the Dalmatian broke forth.