He, a large taxpayer, a generous contributor to asylums and police funds, a supporter of hospitals,--that he should be almost killed! He looked around for a policeman-- "Whoop! Look out! Get out the way!" Swish! Swish! Swish! they shot by.
Livingstone had to dodge for his life.

Of course, no policeman was in sight! Livingstone pushed his way on to the top of the ascent, and a square further on he found an officer inspecting silently a group of noisy urchins squabbling over the division of two sticks of painted candy.

His back was towards the hill from which were coming the shouts of the sliding miscreants.
Livingstone accosted him: "That sliding, back there, must be stopped.

It is a nuisance," he asserted .-- It was dangerous, he declared; he himself had almost been struck by one or more of those sleds and if it had run him down it might have killed him.
The officer, after a long look at him, turned silently and walked slowly in the direction of the hill.

He moved so deliberately and with such evident reluctance that Livingstone's blood boiled.