Presently she heard shouts. The crowd swayed.
Then a man's fierce yell cut the general murmur with the sharpness of a
knife. Suddenly Cuckoo's dream fled. She pushed her way forward in the
direction of the cry; she struggled; she crept under arms and glided
through narrow spaces with extraordinary dexterity and swiftness.
"He's mad," she heard a voice say.
"No; only drunk."
"He'll kill the other fellow if he gets at him."
"The coppers will be on him in a minute."
Cuckoo was panting with her effort, but she passed the voices and came
upon the core of the crowd, the man who had yelled--Julian. She saw in
a moment that he was mad with drink. His hat was off; his coat was torn;
his evening clothes were covered with mud. Apparently he had fallen while
getting out of a cab. Two men--strangers of the street--were holding him
forcibly back while he struggled furiously to attack another man, who
faced him calmly on the pavement with a smile of keen contempt. This man
was Valentine. Julian was screaming incoherent curses at him and wild
threats of murder. The crowd listened and jeered.
Cuckoo caught Julian by the arm. He turned on her to strike her. Then
his arm fell by his side. It seemed as if he recognized her even through
the veil of his excess.
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