But it was the cat playing with the mouse. The bricklayer ran like a cow,
his joints stiffened by years of toil; the larrikins, light on their feet
as hares, kept the pace with a nimble trot, silent and dangerous,
conscious of nothing but the desire and power to kill.

As he turned into Abercrombie Street, Chook ran level with him, then
stooped swiftly and caught his ankle. The bricklayer went sprawling, and
in an instant the Push closed in on the fallen man as footballers form
a scrum, kicking the struggling body with silent ferocity, drunk with the
primeval instinct to destroy.

"Nit!" cried Jonah; and the Push scattered, disappearing by magic over
fences and down lanes.

The bricklayer had ceased to struggle, and lay in a heap. Five minutes
later some stragglers, noticing the huddled mass on the road, crossed the
street cautiously and stared. Then a crowd gathered, each asking the
other what had happened, each amazed at the other's ignorance.

The excitement seemed to penetrate the houses opposite. Heads were thrust
out of windows, doors were opened, and a stream of men and women, wearing
whatever they could find in the dark, shuffled across the footpath.

Some still fumbled at their braces; others, draped like Greek statues,
held their garments on with both hands. A coarse jest passed round when
a tall, bony woman came up, a man's overcoat, thrown over her shoulders,
barely covering her nightdress. They stood shivering in the cold air,
greedy to hear what sensation had come to their very doors.