Last night I met the old man with the pipe. He was leaning against a wall. “Good evening again,” he said. “This is a lonely spot,” I commented. “Aye lad, it is that. Duke Lane is not a nice place at night. Just last week, three ruffians went into the Three Legs of Man down yonder, and such a commotion they caused. Police Constable Hobson was called and ordered them to go away. The poor man was knocked down and kicked. He blew his whistle and they got ‘em, and all three went to prison for hard labour.” I looked at the scene of the crime and when I turned back to the old man he had disappeared.
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