"Stop me," yelled Mole, as he flourished his stick over his head; "my spring legs are doing what they like with me. I have no control over them. Oh, dear, they are at it again."
Chivey, undeterred by his recent castigation, thought he would repeat the trick, so, when Mole came up, he, by a dexterous jerk, turned him round as on a pivot.
He was thus stopped in his forward course, but this didn't check the action of his clockwork legs, which now scudded along as swiftly as before, into the very heart of the yelling crowd.
The result was rather bad for the Turks; they went down like a lot of ninepins before Mole's railway-like progression.
"A mad Christian," they cried; "he is possessed with a devil; down with him."
The perspiration streamed from Mole's face; he felt that if the spring-work in his new cork legs did not stop, he should die.
At this moment a body of women approached, closely veiled.
Their yashmaks obscured all but their eyes, which could be seen to open wide in wonder at the extraordinary behaviour of the red-faced giaour.
Two of the younger and slender ones fell with piercing screams before Mole's impetuous charge.
A third, a stout woman of middle age, stood her ground, and Mole, before he could stop himself, rushed into her arms, and floored her.