flaying fists blocked their way. A chair, five chairs, were overturned. A woman screamed. There was a flash of the bailiff as he flung himself into the fray. A court attendant rushed through a rear door for the police. But the police had heard the uproar and almost crashed the Paul Revere over as three of them rushed into the room, throwing themselves in the direction where the turbaned head of Rao-Singh, like the helmet of Henry of Navarre, was buffeted back and forth.
Faces scratched and eyes blackened, clothes ripped and turbans awry, the three Hindus were slowly but surely gaining the door, aided by the three policemen and the bailiff. One of the police was Patrolman Delaney, eyes alight with battle, mouth in a broad grin, having the time of his life as he wielded his nightstick. Out of the door swept the battling throng and over the broad sidewalk, where another mob of the curious was seething in from all directions. Their way momentarily cleared by the police, the Hindus made a swift dash for Rao-Singh's limousine waiting at the curb. An officer swung on the running board and drew his revolver, waving the more venturesome away with the threat of it and shouting to the Indian chauffeur, "Step on the gas, man, for God's sake." And thus Rao-Singh departed from what had been intended as his triumph.
