Then, with the instinct of the hunted, he turned for home and ran.

The Push gave chase, with Chook in the lead.
Again and again the quarry turned, blindly seeking refuge in the darkest lanes.
As his pursuers gained on him he gave a hoarse scream--the dolorous cry of a hunted animal.
But it was the cat playing with the mouse.

The bricklayer ran like a cow, his joints stiffened by years of toil; the larrikins, light on their feet as hares, kept the pace with a nimble trot, silent and dangerous, conscious of nothing but the desire and power to kill.
As he turned into Abercrombie Street, Chook ran level with him, then stooped swiftly and caught his ankle.

The bricklayer went sprawling, and in an instant the Push closed in on the fallen man as footballers form a scrum, kicking the struggling body with silent ferocity, drunk with the primeval instinct to destroy.
"Nit!" cried Jonah; and the Push scattered, disappearing by magic over fences and down lanes.
The bricklayer had ceased to struggle, and lay in a heap.

Five minutes later some stragglers, noticing the huddled mass on the road, crossed the street cautiously and stared.