The boxer cried out that bail would be found for the captured, but his bull roar was lost in the din.
There was a rush of heavy police boots on the stairs, the lights were suddenly turned out, and in the dark a wild scramble for liberty.
Someone smashed a window that was not barred, and a swarm of men fought round the opening, dropping one by one on to the roof of some stables.
The first man through shouted something and tried to push back, but a frenzied stream of men pushed him and the others into the arms of the police, who had marked this exit beforehand.

Chook found himself on the roof, bleeding from a cut lip, and hatless.

Below him men were crouching on the roofs like cats, to be picked off at the leisure of the police.
He could never understand how he escaped.

He stood on the roof awaiting capture quietly, as resistance was useless, picked up a hat two sizes too large for him, and, walking slowly to the end of the roof, ducked suddenly under an old signboard that was nailed to a chimney.

Every moment he expected a John to walk up to him, but, to his amazement, none came.