"Fetch out your Chinee!"
"We'll teach him English!"
"Down with the rat-eaters!" and a confusion of other cries, at once derisive and threatening.
As the mob, inflamed by these utterances, and urged on by its self-constituted leaders, crowded about the entrance to the front yard, it was met by Constable Jones, who leaned negligently against one of the gate-posts.
"Hello!" he exclaimed. "What do you fellows want here?"
"We want to see Parson Hinckley," answered a spokesman.
"Well, you'll have to call again to-morrow, or some other day, for he's busy just now and can't see you."
"Oh, he carn't, carn't he? I rather guess he'll see us before we git ready to leave. Come on, fellers!"
"Stand back!" shouted the constable as the crowd surged towards the gate. "I have instructions from the owner of these premises not to admit any one to them this night. As this is private property, and I'm bound to protect the owner in his rights, the first man attempting to enter will be arrested for trespass."
This announcement was greeted with howls of derision, and it seemed as though Constable Jones was about to have on his hands the job of arresting the entire mob, when another halt was called by the voice of Mr. Hinckley, who came from the house to the front gate as though to investigate the trouble.