Nor is the game the same.

It, like the London boys' game, has ended suddenly, but not in a helter-skelter stampede in the rain.

No.

It is a silent, awe- struck group round something on the ground; and as he, Jeffreys, elbows his way among them, he sees again a boy's face lying there pallid and perhaps lifeless.

Then instinctively he lifts his hands to his ears.
For a howl rises on all sides which deafens him, stuns him.
After all, it is only the last effort of the October squall in Regent's Park buffeting him with a fusillade of rain and withered leaves.