“Yes,” said the old man, smiling, as he patted his cases. “My pets; I shouldn’t like to lose them. Yes, sir, ignorance in Christian England in the nineteenth century!”
“Yah! Body-snatchers!” came again; and the howling and yelling mob were evidently forcing their way in.
“Never mind them, Mr North,” continued the old man. “Let me see and hear from you. I believe in your theory. You have gone too far, my dear sir; youth is sanguine. You have aimed at the top of the mountain. You will not get there, but to a good high place, and I am proud to have met so clever, so talented a young man.”
“Thank you, sir; thank you,” cried North, as the old man lowered his cases into his pockets; “but hadn’t we better try and get away?”
“Try?” said the old man. “I do not see how we can. The mob are arranging for seizing by escalade.”
“Yah! Body-snatchers!” came in a fierce yell, louder, too, as it followed upon a tremendous crash.
The irruption of the London “Yahoos” had taken place, and they were pouring in, headed by a fierce-looking, crop-eared, bullet-headed ruffian, and the fight began.
Medical students can fight; and upon this occasion they used their fists scientifically and well; but the odds were against them. The mob swept on, and the big ruffian and a dozen companions made a dash over the seats, treating them as they would those of the gallery of a theatre on a night when they wished to express their displeasure.
Before Horace North realised the fact, they were upon the group by where the operating table had stood, and close to another table upon which were bottles, glasses, basins, sponges, and a pestle and mortar.
The young doctor was borne back as the yell—the war-cry, “Yah! Body-snatchers!”—once more arose, and as he struggled with one scoundrel who tried to take vengeance upon him by stealing his watch, he saw the grey-headed old surgeon struck down by the bullet-headed, butcher-like ruffian who led the gang; and the fellow was about to follow up his attack by performing a war-dance upon the defenceless old man.