“Scum!” said Andrew contemptuously, as they left the little crowd behind.
“Is the city always like this?” said Frank, whose face now was as red as his companion’s.
“Yes, now,” said Andrew bitterly. “That’s a specimen of a Whig mob.”
“Nonsense!” cried Frank, rather warmly; “don’t be so prejudiced. How can you tell that they are Whigs?”
“By the way in which they jumped at a chance to insult gentlemen. Horse soldiers indeed! Draw swords! Oh! I should like to be at the head of a troop, to give the order and chase the dirty ruffians out of the street, and make my men thrash them with the flats of their blades till they went down on their knees in the mud and howled for mercy.”
“What a furious fire-eater you are, Drew,” cried Frank, recovering his equanimity. “We ought to have stepped out into the road.”
“For a set of jeering ruffians like that!” cried Andrew. “No. They hate to see a gentleman go by. London is getting disgraceful now.”
“Never mind. There, I’ve seen enough of it. Let’s get down to the river again, and take a boat; it’s much pleasanter than being in this noisy, crowded place.”
“Not yet. We’ve a better right here than a mob like that. It would be running away.”
“Why, how would they know?” said Frank merrily.