"Does it?" he asked.
"She flung them out of window to the packet-men."
"Which, doubtless, seemed to you an everyday proceeding—just a milliner's usual way of getting rid of her summer stock. My good young sir, did you ever hear tell of a 'troacher'? Nay, spare that ingenuous blush: Moll is a loose fish, but I mean less than your modesty suspects. A 'troacher' is a kind of female smuggler that disposes of the goods the packet-men bring home in their bunks; and Moll Whiteaway is the head of the profession in Falmouth. Now, our worthy Mayor took oath the other day to put down this smuggling on board the packets; and he began yesterday with the Townshend. He and the Port Searcher swept the ship, sir. They dug Portuguese brandy in kegs out of the seamen's beds and parcels of silk out of the very beams. They shook two case-bottles out of the chaplain's breeches, which must have galled him sorely in his devotions. They netted close on two hundred pounds' worth of contraband in the fo'c's'le alone—"
"Good Heavens!" I interjected. "And as the riot began he was calling himself short-sighted!"
Captain Bright laughed, clapped me on the shoulder and led the way upstairs, where (strange to say) we found the Mayor again deploring his defective vision. He lay in an easy-chair amid an army of band-boxes, bonnet stands, and dummies representing the female figure; and sipped Miss Whiteaway's brandy while he discoursed in broken sentences to an audience consisting of that lady, my father, Nat Fiennes, Mr. Fett, and the little man in black (who, by the way, did not appear to be listening, but stood and pondered the borough mace, which he held in his hands, turning it over and examining the dents).
"It is a great drawback, Sir John—a great drawback," his Worship lamented. "A man in my position, sir, should have the eye of an eagle; instead of which on all public occasions I have to rely on John Sprott. My good woman"—he turned to Miss Whiteaway—"would you mind taking a glance out of window and telling me what has become of John Sprott?"
"He's down below under protection of the soldiers," announced Miss Whiteaway; "and no harm done but his hat lost and his gown split up the back."
"I shall never have the same confidence in John Sprott. He takes altogether too sanguine a view of human nature. Why, only last November—you remember the great gale of November the 1st, Sir John? I was very active in burying the poor bodies brought ashore next day and for several days after; for, as you remember, a couple of Indymen dragged their anchors and broke up under Pendennis Battery: and John Sprott said to me in the most assured way, 'The town'll never forget your kindness, sir. You mark my words,' he said, 'this here action will stand you upon the pinnacles of honour till you and me, if I may respectfully say it, sit down together in the land of marrow and fatness.' After that you'd have thought a man might count on some popularity. But what happened? A day or two later—that is to say, on November the 5th—I was sitting in my shop with a magnifying glass in my eye, cleaning out a customer's watch, when in walked half a dozen boys carrying a man's body between 'em. You could tell that life was extinct by the way his head hung back and his legs trailed limp on the floor as they brought him in, and his face looked to me terribly swollen and discoloured. 'Dear, dear!' said I. 'What? Another poor soul? Take him up to the mortewary, that's good boys,' I said; 'and you shall have twopence apiece out of the poor-box.' How d'ye think they answered me? They bust out a-laughing, and cries one: 'If you please, sir, 'tis meant for you! 'Tis the fifth of November, and we'm goin' to burn you in effigy.' I chased 'em out of the shop, and later on in the day I spoke to John Sprott about it. 'Well now,' said John Sprott,' I passed a lot of boys just now, burning a guy at the top of the Moor, and I had my suspicions; but the thing hadn't a feature of yours to take hold on, barrin' the size of its feet.' And that's what you call popularity!" wound up the Mayor with bitterness. "That's what a man gets for rising early and lying down late to serve his country!"
"Excuse me, Mr. Mayor," put in Captain Bright, "but they are threatening to burn worse than your effigy fact I heard some talk of setting fire to your house and shop. Nay," he went on as the Mayor bounced up to his feet, "there's no real cause for alarm. I have sent on my lieutenant with fifty men to keep the mob on the move, and have stationed a dozen outside here to escort you home."
"The Riot Act—where's my Riot Act?" cried his Worship, searching his pockets. "I never read out 'God save the King,' and without 'God save the King' a man may burn all my valybles and make turbulent gestures and show of arms, and harry and murder to the detriment of the public peace, and refuse to move on when requested, and all the time in the eyes of the law be a babe unborn. Where's the Riot Act, I say? for without it I'm a lost man and good-bye to Falmouth!"