The driver was lashing his horses forward, and a policeman was at their heads, with the conductor, pulling them; stones, clubs, brickbats hailed upon the car, the horses, the men trying to move them.

The mob closed upon them in a body, and then a patrol-wagon whirled up from the other side, and a squad of policemen leaped out and began to club the rioters.

Conrad could see how they struck them under the rims of their hats; the blows on their skulls sounded as if they had fallen on stone; the rioters ran in all directions.
One of the officers rushed up toward the corner where Conrad stood, and then he saw at his side a tall, old man, with a long, white beard, who was calling out at the policemen: "Ah, yes! Glup the strikerss--gif it to them! Why don't you co and glup the bresidents that insoalt your lawss, and gick your Boart of Arpidration out-of-toors?
Glup the strikerss--they cot no friendts! They cot no money to pribe you, to dreat you!" The officer lifted his club, and the old man threw his left arm up to shield his head.

Conrad recognized Zindau, and now he saw the empty sleeve dangle in the air over the stump of his wrist.

He heard a shot in that turmoil beside the car, and something seemed to strike him in the breast.