Jack shoved his way into the throng, using the crutch now like a burglar's jimmy to widen small openings, and after a few minutes' rattling pursuit caught up with St.-George and clapped him on the shoulder, like a policeman. Many would drop everything and sprint away when so handled, but one did not become a legend in the rat-killer's trade if one was easily startled. St.-George turned around, making the rats on his pole swing wide, like perfectly synchronized pole-dancers at a fun-fair, and recognized him. Calmly, but not coldly. 'Jacques – so you did escape from those German witches.'