He felt horribly ill, and struggled in vain to get up.

The cyclist, a gigantic figure, towered above him.

"Who the devil are you ?" he was asking.
"What do you mean by it ?" Dickson had no breath for words, and knew that if he tried to speak he would be very sick.

He could only stare up like a dog at the angry eyes.

Angry beyond question they were, but surely not malevolent.
Indeed, as they looked at the shameful figure on the ground, amusement filled them.