He was on his way out of the Place Royale, walking under the gate on its south side, when behind him a commotion broke out. The hiss of iron wheel-rims grinding over paving-stones, the crisp footfalls of horses moving in unnatural unison, the shouts of footmen and of bystanders, warning all to make way. Jack was still getting about with the crutch (he daren't let the sword out of his sight, and couldn't bear it openly). So when he didn't move fast enough, a burly servant in powder-blue livery crushed him out of the way and sent him tumbling across the pavement so that his 'good' leg plunged knee-deep in a gutter filled with stagnating shit.