And what a lovely warm night for it. They certainly cut a figure walking down Commercial Street, the twenty of them, fine upstanding fellows ready to defend the sacredness of Albion’s soil. They aren’t wearing their black shirts—this is “unofficial” business, a little bit of extracurricular, if you like. Party line is against violence, but then most members of the British Union of Fascists prefer a punch-up to a knees-up.

All they need now is a Jew, a nice fat Jew who can be taught a lesson. This is the place for it—lots of rag-trade Shylocks ready for a good kicking. But where the hell are they all, these sons of Israel? They must have had a tip-off, because the streets are empty. Could there be an antifascist in their ranks, a bleeding Communist, in league with the Jews? As far as he is concerned, this proves it, proves that the Bolshies and the Yids are all in it together.

One of the mob throws a rock through a shop window. The breaking glass sounds good, and a cheer goes up. The shop name is Solomon—a sure sign that it deserves the rock. A Star of David gets painted on the door with the wordsJEWS OUT. Another cheer. They’ll soon get the message, these leeches, and bugger off somewhere else.

They continue walking, curtains twitching as they pass. It smells foul around here—can’t these people keep themselves clean? Another window gets broken and…Jesus! What the hell was that? Did someone just hurl a rock at them? Where in God’s name did that bloody come from? He thinks he knows, he thinks he saw one of them running down that side street.

“Come on, lads!” he shouts. “Get the little shit!”

More cheering and he leads them into a run, turning right down the side street, entering a row of slum housing, a few shocked pedestrians standing still.

“Get ’em all!” and the blows come down, indiscriminately.

“Fucking Jewish scum!”

The mob are nicely worked up now; nothing can stop them, not even the police. He spots the rock-thrower again, turning down another street. This is like a maze, are they being led into a trap? He doubts it. Blood is all he wants—how dare a Yid throw a rock at an Englishman!

“Keep running! We’re gaining on him!”

He’s glad he keeps himself fit. No Jew is going to outrun him, and this one will be the first to know it. He can see him clearly now, thirty yards away, his little legs doing their best. He looks a real shorty, this one. Good, he’ll be even shorter in a few minutes, if he ever walks again.