The scum of that yeasty gallimaufry was on the outskirts.
When the Corson limousine rolled into the square and sought to part its way through that scum somebody in the crowd made a proposition that was promptly favored as far as the votes by voices went: "Tip the lapdog kennel upside down!"
Chauffeur Wallace met the emergency with quick tactics. He reversed and drove the car backward. The fingers of the attackers slipped from the smooth varnish and the wheels threatened those who tried to grab the running-boards. Men who seized the fender-bar were dragged off their feet.
When Coventry Daunt showed a praiseworthy inclination to jump out and whip a few hundred of them, so he declared in his ire, he was pushed back into a corner by his sister.
The chauffeur made a long drive in reverse, circling, and then put the car ahead with a rush and they escaped into a side-street.
"Wallace, get us home as quick as the good Lord will let you!" Mrs.
Stanton's command was hysterically shrill.
"Wallace, take the first turn to the left," countermanded the mistress.
"Then around the State House to the west portico."
"You crazy girl, what—after that—why—what are you trying to do?" demanded Mrs. Stanton, fear making her furious.
"I'm trying to get into that building—and I'm going to get in!"
"You can't get in! They won't let you in! Lana Corson, you sha'n't endanger our lives again!"