The teerain goes when it goes, and then perhaps we will beat these
people from the platform and make room again! But there is no
authority--no law any more--they are all gone mad!"

King wrote on a pad, tore off a sheet, folded it and gave it to him.

"That is for the Superintendent of Police at the office. Carriage
number 1181, eleven doors from here--the one with the shut door
and a big Hillman inside sitting three places from the door facing
the engine. Get the Hillman! No, there is only one Hillman in
the carriage. No, the others are not his friends; they will not
help him. He will fight, but he has no friends in that carriage."

The "constabeel" obeyed, not very cheerfully. King stood to watch
him with a foot on the step of a first-class coach. Another
constable passed him, elbowing a snail's progress between the train
and the crowd. He seized the man's arm.

"Go and help that man!" he ordered. "Hurry!"

Then he climbed into the carriage and leaned from the window. He
grinned as he saw both constables pounce on a third-class carriage
door and, with the yell of good huntsmen who have viewed, seize
the protesting Northerner by the leg and begin to drag him forth.
There was a fight, that lasted three minutes, in the course of which
a long knife flashed. But there were plenty to help take the knife
away, and the Hillman stood handcuffed and sullen at last, while
one of his captors bound a cut forearm. Then they dragged him away;
but not before he bad seen King at the window, and had lipped a
silent threat.