The speaker now finished amid a low murmur of applause. The man who followed him was of a less practical turn, and simply strove to excite his hearers by a speech calling upon them to strike for liberty, and to cut off the chains in which they were bound by a pampered aristocracy.
“Look out, Perkins, I'm going to begin,” Frank said; and then, at the top of his voice, he shouted out, “That's a lie!”
An immense confusion at once took place in the hall. There were shouts of “A spy!”—“Turn him out!”—“Hang him!”—“Lock the doors!” But those nearest who turned to carry these threats into execution, hesitated a moment at the sight of the three powerful men who guarded the door, which Prescott, as previously agreed, had opened, to prevent the man in the passage locking it on the other side. The hesitation was momentary, and then a tremendous rush was made by the exasperated crowd. Those in front, however, as speedily recoiled, or were beaten back by the tremendous blows of Frank Maynard and the two prizefighters. The assault of the Slogger, however, was not in the first place directed against those who attacked him, but against a man who was standing in front of him, and who had evinced no intention of taking part in the fray. He was a tall man, dressed as a bricklayer, with large whiskers and black hair. Soon after he had entered, the Slogger had noticed with surprise that these whiskers were false, for the upper part of one of them, owing probably to the heat of the room, had become detached from his face. The Slogger would not have thought much of this, as he supposed at first it was some one who had disguised himself, and come merely from curiosity, as he had himself, but something in the man's figure, and in his peculiar way of holding his head, reminded him of a man against whom he had a particular grudge, for having, only the week before, been the means of transporting the Slogger's brother. He determined immediately the fray began to find out if his suspicions were correct. Accordingly, the instant the rush was made, he commenced the assault, by striking the unsuspecting man in front of him a violent blow on the ear, which would have sent him to the ground had not he been kept on his feet by the crowd around him. His false whiskers, however, fell off, and the smoothly shaven cheeks were visible.
“Ha! Mr. Barton,” the Slogger shouted, as he dealt tremendous blows right and left at the assailants who rushed at him, “it's my turn now. You shan't go out from here with a whole skin. A spy!—a spy!” he shouted; but the tumult was too great for his voice to be heard. For some little time the three men had easily beaten off their assailants, but matters were momentarily becoming more serious. The men on the platform were breaking up the chairs and tables, while others tore down portions of the woodwork to form weapons. These now pressed forward through the crowd as they fell back in dismay from their formidable opponents.
“I think it's about time to make a bolt, sir.”
“All right, Perkins,—come along.”
In the meantime, Prescott had had a quiet encounter of his own with the door-keeper—who had been signally worsted, and had run out into the street—and was now holding the door ready to close it as the others retreated. After a rush upon the assailants, in order to drive them back, and gain time for the manœuvre, the three men made a hasty retreat through the door, which Prescott instantly closed and locked behind them, and in another instant they were out in the New Cut.
“Come the other way, sir,” Perkins said, “there's a cab-stand under the railway-arch, and if them fellows get out and find us, they'd be as likely to knife us as not.”
In another minute they were in the cab.