Before the report had fairly died away people came rushing to the spot from all directions, so that in less than five minutes a mob of infuriated men had collected, and Bangs perceived at once that he would be lynched unless he could save himself by flight.
He darted down a side street and flew onward, the mob in hot pursuit. Panting, breathless, he gained a large distillery, and rushing in, hid behind the casks of beer.
But the mob were close at his heels; they instantly swarmed over the whole building, hunting for him with yells and shouts of rage.
“Where is he—the bloody assassin?” “Catch him!” “Hang him!” “Lynch him!” “Don’t wait for the law; that’ll only send the wretch to State prison, though he’s killed a better man than himself!”
Bangs crouched in his hiding-place, shaking with terror. Presently the barrels in front of him were violently shoved aside, a dozen hands seized him with no gentle grasp, and he was dragged out with exultant shouts of fury.
“Here he is! we’ve got the double-dyed villain, the bloody-handed murderer, and we’ll deal out even-handed justice to him!”
“That we will!” echoed a chorus of voices.
“A rope! a rope!” was the next cry; “a rope round the murderer’s neck, and off with him to the big oak-tree in front of Barton’s.”
Hicks, the butcher, came pushing his way through the crowd with a stout rope in his hands.
“Here, boys, how’ll this answer? It’s what I brought that bull into town with yesterday, and I reckon it’s strong enough to hold this wild beast. Hold him, and I’ll put it round his neck!”