No sooner said than done. Their excitement was ready to take the slightest hint of mischief; old chairs, broken tables, odd drawers, smashed chests were rapidly and skilfully heaped into a pyramid, and one, who at the first broaching of the idea had gone for live coals the speedier to light up the fire, came now through the crowd with a large shovelful of red-hot cinders. The rioters stopped to take breath and look on like children at the uncertain flickering blaze, which sprang high one moment and dropped down the next only to creep along the base of the heap of wreck, and make secure of its future work. Then the lurid blaze darted up wild, high, and irrepressible; and the men around gave a cry of fierce exultation, and in rough mirth began to try and push each other in. In one of the pauses of the rushing, roaring noise of the flames, the moaning low and groan of the poor alarmed cow fastened up in the shippon caught Daniel’s ear, and he understood her groans as well as if they had been words. He limped out of the yard through the now deserted house, where men were busy at the mad work of destruction, and found his way back to the lane into which the shippon opened. The cow was dancing about at the roar and dazzle and heat of the fire; but Daniel knew how to soothe her, and in a few minutes he had a rope round her neck, and led her gently out from the scene of her alarm. He was still in the lane when Simpson, the man-of-all-work at the Mariners’ Arms, crept out of some hiding-place in the deserted out-building, and stood suddenly face to face with Robson.
The man was white with rage and fear.
“Here, tak’ thy beast, and lead her where she’ll noan hear yon cries and shouts. She’s fairly moidered wi’ heat an’ noise.”
“They’re brenning every rag I have i’ t’ world,” gasped out Simpson; “I niver had much, and now I’m a beggar.”
“Well! thou shouldn’t ha’ turned again’ thine own townfolks, and harboured t’ gang. Sarves thee reet. A’d noan be here leading beasts if a were as young as a were; a’d be in t’ thick on it.”
“It was thee set ’em on—a heerd thee—a see’d thee a helping on ’em t’ break in; they’d ne’r ha’ thought on attacking t’ house, and setting fire to yon things if thou hadn’t spoken on it.” Simpson was now fairly crying. But Daniel did not realise what the loss of all the small property he had in the world was to the poor fellow (rapscallion though he was, broken-down, unprosperous ne’er-do-weel!) in his pride at the good work he believed he had set on foot.
“Ay,” said he; “it’s a great thing for folk to have a chap for t’ lead ’em wi’ a head on his shoulders. A misdoubt me if there were a felly there as would ha’ thought o’ routling out yon wasps’ nest; it taks a deal o’ mother-wit to be up to things. But t’ gang’ll niver harbour there again, one while. A only wish we’d cotched ’em. An’ a should like t’ ha’ given Hobbs a bit o’ my mind.”
“He’s had his sauce,” said Simpson dolefully. “He and me is ruined.”
“Tut, tut, thou’s got thy brother, he’s rich enough. And Hobbs ’ll do a deal better; he’s had his lesson now, and he’ll stick to his own side time to come. Here, tak’ thy beast an’ look after her, for my bones is aching. An’ mak’ thysel’ scarce, for some o’ them fellys has getten their blood up, an’ won’t be for treating thee o’er well if they fall in wi’ thee.”
“Hobbs ought to be served out; it were he as made t’ bargain wi’ lieutenant; and he’s off safe wi’ his wife and his money-bag, and a’m left a beggar this night in Monkshaven street. My brother and me has had words, and he’ll do nought for me but curse me. A had three crown-pieces, and a good pair o’ breeches, and a shirt, and a dare say better nor two pair o’ stockings. A wish t’ gang, and thee, and Hobbs, and them mad folk up yonder were a’ down i’ hell. A do.”