Fate, however, was against them. For just at that moment, while the students were meditating retiring with honour, the theatre, then at the foot of Marischal Street, a street leading directly down to the harbour from the square called Castle-gate, gave exit to its swarms. The gods, as those who occupied the galleries were called, seeing that a riot was on, at once raised the cry of “Down with the students,” as they joined the beaten mob. The fight was now sharp and fierce, but against such fearful odds only one ending was possible—the students were beaten and scattered.
Now to his credit be it said, Sandie would have gone straight home, and not engaged in this unseemly town-and-gown at all, but Willie went in for it like wildfire.
And after the first defeat, Sandie, to his dismay, saw the poor lad lying helpless on the ground kicked and cuffed by the mob. The Africander was at his elbow, and both rushed to Willie’s assistance.
The Africander fairly shouldered Willie, and fought his way with him clear of the mob.
But ill-fared it with poor Sandie. He was knocked down and half killed, three of his ribs being broken with a stout stick. It was well for him that two burly night-watchmen rushed in to his rescue.
They bore him away, however, and kindly helped him all the way home.
They even assisted him to bed—a bed, by the way, he did not leave for a fortnight.
“I’ll never forget your goodness,” said Sandie, as he presented one of them with a five-shilling piece, that the three might drink his health.
“Oh,” said the spokesman, “we did naething mair than common charity.”
“But you don’t understand, men. You might have made me prisoner, mightn’t you?”