One evening, as he was passing through a poor part of the town, he came into collision with a drunken man, who was in the act of entering a low public-house. The wretched creature looked up into “Cobbler” Horn’s face, and “Cobbler” Horn recognised him as a formerly respectable neighbour of his own.
“Richard,” he cried, catching the man by the arm, “don’t go in there!”
“Shall if I like, Thomas,” said the man, thickly, recognising “Cobbler” Horn in turn. “D’yer think ’cause ye’re rich, yer has right t’ say where I shall go in, and where I shan’t go in?”
“Oh, no, Richard,” said “Cobbler” Horn, with his hand still on the man’s arm. “But you’ve had enough drink, and had better go quietly home.”
As he spoke, he gradually drew his captive further away from the public-house. The man struggled furiously, talking all the time in rapid and excited tones.
“Let me a-be!” he exclaimed with a thickness of tone which was the combined result of indignation and strong drink. “You ha’ no right to handle me like this! Ain’t this a free country? Where’s the perlice?”
“Come along, Richard; you’ll thank me to-morrow,” persisted “Cobbler” Horn quietly, moving his captive along another step or two. But, by this time, a crowd was beginning to gather; and it seemed likely that, although Richard himself might not be able effectually to resist his captor, “Cobbler” Horn’s purpose would be frustrated in another way. In fact the crowd—a sadly dilapidated crew—had drawn so closely around the centre of interest, as to render almost impossible the further progress of the struggling pair.
At this point, some one recognised “Cobbler” Horn.
“Yah!” he cried, “it ain’t a fight, after all! It’s ‘the Golden Shoemaker’ a-collarin’ a cove wot’s drunk!”
At the announcement of “the Golden Shoemaker,” the people crowded up more closely than ever. While all had heard of that glittering phenomenon, perhaps few had actually seen him, and the present opportunity was not to be lost.