“Where’ll we gettum?”
“Satkins’s kosher shop on the Av’noo.”
“Where’s yer tar?”
This was a poser; Satkins was saved from a raid. A more practical expedient now evolved from the collective brain.
“Duck’m in the fountain!”
“Drown him in the fountain!” amended an enthusiast.
Whooping with delight, the mob turned toward the gate. This was becoming dangerous. That there was no real intent to drown the unfortunate umbrella-mender I was well satisfied. But mob intent is subject to mob impulse. If they once got him into the water, the temptation of the playful to push his head under just once more might be too strong. Plainly the time was ripe for intervention.
Owing to some enthusiastically concerted but ill-directed engineering, the scantling with its human burden had jammed crosswise of the posts. Now, if ever, was the opportunity for eloquence of dissuasion.
For the heroic rôle of Horatius at the Bridge I am ill-fitted both by temperament and the fullness of years. Nevertheless, I advanced into the imminent deadly breach and raised the appeal to reason.
The result was unsatisfactory. Some hooted. Others laughed.