"Listen to me," said Mrs. Oakley. "He has murdered his poor wife, and that is the reason I have asked that he should be held tight."
"Murdered his wife!" exclaimed about twelve females in chorus. "Murdered his wife? Then hanging is a great deal too good for him. Hold him tight, sir, do. Oh, the wretch!"
The tide of popular feeling fairly turned against Mr. Lupin, and Big Ben had as much difficulty now in preserving the half dead wretch from popular fury as if he had been accused of any other crime, he might have had to prevent popular sympathy from aiding his escape.
"Oh!" cried one lady, of rather extensive proportions, who was the wife of a baker, "I should like to have him in a brisk oven for an hour and a half."
"And I," said the lady of a butcher, "would see him slaughtered without so much as winking at him."
"And serve him right, the wagabone!" cried Big Ben. "Come along, will you, you ill-looking scarecrow! Easy does it. Will you walk? Oh, very well, don't. Who are you?"
A little man with a constable's staff in his hand, rushed before Ben, crying out—
"What is it? what is it? I'm a constable. What is it?"
"Murder!" said Mrs. Oakley. "I give that man in charge for murdering his wife. I saw him do it."
"That will do," said the constable. "Give him to me. I'll take him. He dare not resist me. I'll have him."