In the excitement nimble John Meaney had managed to escape. As he dashed down the street he had chanced to catch sight of me and had passed me the word of our friend's peril.
The crowd was already hurrying in the direction of the square in the center of the town where the court house stood and I followed as fast as my legs could carry me.
As I entered the square I could see Tom's familiar form looming above the heads of the yelling mob which surrounded him. He was mounted on a soap box under an oak tree which stood in front of the court house.
I shall never forget how he looked—pale as a sheet, his feet tied with rope, his arms securely bound behind him. He was bareheaded and they had removed his coat and collar in order to adjust the noose which hung around his neck.
Quite plainly, if there was anything I could do to save my friend, it must be done quickly. The mob was loudly clamoring for his life. Already a young man was climbing up the tree in search of a convenient limb over which to throw the end of the rope.
I shuddered to think that, unless I could devise some plan of action, Tom Bigelow's lifeless body would soon be dangling before my eyes.
Summoning every ounce of the nervous energy I possessed I pressed my way through the crowd, screaming frantically:
"That man is my sweetheart! Don't lynch him—oh, please don't lynch him!"
My action took the crowd by surprise—they made a lane for me and pushed me along until finally I stood right at Tom's feet.