By this time the crowd had increased, and several truculent fellows broke from it and rushed towards the fight. They were heavier metal than the ’prentice lads; soon they outnumbered them; the little band was forced back step by step, some of them losing their clubs to the enemy. The combat swept past the old Frenchman, carrying Martin with it, and in a few moments the ’prentices would have suffered a disastrous rout had not a loud shout in a tone of authority imposed a sudden peace.
All eyes were turned upon the speaker, an elderly gentleman wearing a well-curled periwig, and a coat of purple cloth, and carrying a gold-headed cane which he brandished at the crowd. Martin recognised him as the important customer of Mr. Slocum’s who had been hustled in the course of his fight with George Hopton.
“Back, rascals!” cried the gentleman. “Are you fools enough to believe these absurd tales of foreign incendiaries? I tell you there’s no ground for them. Foreigners in our midst should be treated as guests. Your conduct is a disgrace to Englishmen and citizens of London. Away with you, and find something useful to do.”
“Hurrah for Mr. Pemberton!” cried the ’prentices.
The combatants shamefacedly drew back and mingled with the more peaceable spectators. Martin hurried to the old Frenchman’s side.
“What! You again!” said Mr. Pemberton, recognising him. “Are you always fighting?”
“I owe my life to him and the others,” began Mounseer.
“You had better go home, sir,” was the reply, “and remain within doors while men’s minds are affected by this great calamity. As for you lads, I hope, though I don’t expect, that you will always use your clubs in as good a cause.”
He moved away, followed by another cheer from the ’prentices, and Martin started to accompany the Frenchman home, supporting him on his arm. George Hopton and one or two other ’prentices set off to see them a little distance on their way.