He shoved me aside, calling me a name that a drunken donkey-driver would hesitate to apply to a dog in the gutter.

He was on his way to the lock-up that stands just inside the gate, and I wished him a year in it.
As he plunged into the crowd that checked and surged immediately in front of the line of Sikhs, a small man in Arab costume with the lower part of his face well covered by the kaffiyi,* rushed out from the corner behind the bootblacks and drove a long knife home to the hilt between the policeman's shoulder-blades.

I wasn't shocked.

I wasn't even sorry.

[*Head-dress that hangs down over the shoulders.] Bedreddin Shah shrieked and fell forward.