Some of the men ran on first to tell the magistrate they'd got the Methodist preacher. Instead of seeming pleased, the magistrate said:
"What have I to do with Mr. Wesley? Take him back again." So he sent them off, and went to bed.
By and by the crowd came up to the house, and knocked at the door. When the magistrate's son went to them and asked what was the matter, they said:
"Why, please, sir, these Methodists sing psalms all day, and make folks get up at five o'clock in the morning, and what would your worship advise us to do?"
"To go home and be quiet," replied the gentleman.
Finding they could get no help from this magistrate, they hurried poor Mr. Wesley off to another. This gentleman, too, had gone to bed, and so the mob could do nothing else but go home.
However, before they had got very far they were joined by another rough mob from a neighbouring town; and then, in the rain and the darkness, the two mobs started fighting and knocking each other down. It was no use Mr. Wesley trying to speak, for the shouting and noise was like the roaring of the sea. They dragged him along with them until they reached the town, and then, seeing the door of a large house open, Mr. Wesley tried to get in. But one of the cruel men got him by the hair and pulled him back into the middle of the mob; and then they dragged him from one end of the town to the other.
"I talked all the time to those that were within hearing," said Mr. Wesley, afterwards, "and I never felt the least pain or weariness."
At last he saw a shop door half open, and tried to get in, but the gentleman to whom the shop belonged would not let him.
"Why, the people would pull my house down," he said, "if I let you in."