"And how, pray," asked my father, "are these poor women to disperse, if your ruffians won't let 'em?"
"As to that, sir, you shall see," promised the Mayor, and turned to the town crier. "John Sprott, call silence. Make as much noise about it as you can, John Sprott. And you, Nandy Daddo, catch hold of my horse's bridle here."
He rose in his stirrups and, searching again in his tail-pocket, drew forth a roll of paper.
"Silence!" bawled the crier.
"Louder, if you please, John Sprott: louder, if you can manage it!
And say 'In the name of King George,' John Sprott; and wind up with
'God save the King.' For without 'God save the King' 'tis no riot,
and a man cannot be hanged for it. So be very particular to say
'God save the King,' John Sprott, and put 'em all in the wrong."
John Sprott bawled again, and this time achieved the whole formula.
"That's better, John Sprott. And you—" his Worship turned upon the
Methodists, "you just listen to this, now—"
"Our sovereign Lord the King—"
Here, as the Methodists stood before him with folded hands, a lump of filth flew past the Mayor's ear and bespattered the lamp-post.
"Damme, who did that?" his Worship demanded. "John Sprott, who threw that muck?"