“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I know a Whig when I see one, my lad.”
“Do you mean that as an insult, sir?” said Andrew haughtily.
“No,” said the gentleman, smiling; “only as a bit of advice.”
“Because if you did—” said Andrew, laying his hand upon his sword.
“You would send your friends to me, boy, and then I should not fight. Nonsense, my lad. There, off with your friend while your shoes are good, and don’t raise your voice, or some one will find out that you are from the Palace. Then the news would run like wild fire, and you ought to know by this time what a cowardly London mob will do. They nearly tore Sir Marland Granthill out of his carriage just now. There, if I am not on your side, I speak as a friend.”
Before Andrew could make any retort, and just as Frank was tugging at his arm to get him away, they were separated from the stranger by a rush in the crowd, which forced them up into a doorway, from whose step they saw, one after the other, no less than six men borne along insensible and bleeding from wounds upon the head, while their clothes were nearly torn from their backs.
Then the shouting and yelling began to subside, and the two lads were forced to go with the stream, till an opportunity came for them to dive down a side street and reach the river stairs, where they took a wherry and were rowed east.
“I should like to know who that man was,” said Andrew, after a long silence, during which they went gliding along with the falling tide.
“He spoke very well,” said Frank.