"Drag her out, some of ye, down there, why don't ye," screamed a human tiger, in the rear of the crowd; "don't mind that woman, she is no better than the gal. Let me in and I'll bring her."
A strong hand is laid upon the poor girl's arm, and for the first time she looks up, but ventures not a word. The look was enough. It appealed to a woman's heart for protection—an appeal that never failed. How can she protect the helpless with her feeble strength, against the brutal force of rum crazed men and vicious boys, who shout, "drag her out, drag her out."
Will they do it? They heed not the appealing look of their victim—their object of sport—fun—fun for them, death to her. They heed not the appealing words of her who would protect. God help you, poor soul, you have drank wine—you are drunk in the streets at midnight—you have none but those who are as weak as yourself, to save you, poor, timid, stricken fawn.
"Drag her out, drag her out." How it rung in her ears! How those terrible words went down into her soul!
Succor is at hand.
There was a shout, a yell, a horrid scream of anguish, a few hurried oaths, a pushing, shoving, care-for-self-only struggle among the crowd, as a shower of smoking water fell among them, and they were gone.
The lady turned her eyes, and there stood Mrs. McTravers, in her night cap, pail in hand, her effective engine of war.
"Oh, Mrs. McTravers, how could you scald them?"
"Didn't they deserve it, the brutes?"
"Yes, yes; no, not so bad as that. I am afraid you have put out their eyes."