Harry, the big hammerman, had somewhat recovered himself, and was shaking his head as if to get rid of a buzzing sensation, and murmurs loud and deep were arising, when the shrill voice of the man in the red waistcoat arose.
“Now, lads, now’s your time. Trample down them as is always trampling on you and your rights. Smite ’em hip and thigh.”
“Come on, and show ’em how to do it,” roared a sturdy voice, and Tom Podmore thrust himself before the vicar, and faced the mob. “Come on and show ’em how, Sim Slee; and let’s see as you ain’t all wind.”
There was a derisive shout at this, and the man in the red waistcoat began again.
“Down with them, boys. Down with Tom Podmore, too; he’s a sneak—a rat. Yah!”
“I’ll rat you, you ranting bagpipe,” cried Tom, loudly. “Stand back, lads; this is new parson, and him as touches him has to come by me first. Harry, lad, come o’ my side; you don’t bear no malice again a man as can hit like that.”
“Not I,” said Harry, thrusting his great head forward, to stare full in the vicar’s face. “Dal me, but you are a stout un, parson; gie’s your fist. It’s a hard un.”
It was given on the instant, and the hearty pressure told the vicar that he had won a new ally.
“As for the governor,” cried Tom, “you may do what you like wi’ him, lads, for I shan’t tak’ his part.”
“Podmore,” whispered the vicar, “for Heaven’s sake be a man, and help me.”