A man—one of a group of three or four who appeared to be trying to push their way through the crowd—was being hustled and flung to and fro amid jeers and taunts. He was striving to gain the hustings, but was still some way from it; and his chance of reaching it with his clothes on his back seemed small. Vaughan saw so much; then the man lost his temper, and struck a blow. It was returned—and then, not till then, Vaughan saw that the man was Isaac White. He cried “Shame!”—and had passed one leg over the barriers to go to the rescue, when he saw that another was before him. Sir Robert’s tall, spare figure was down among the crowd—which opened instinctively before his sharp command. His eyes, his masterful air still had power; the press opened instinctively before his sharp command. He had reached White, had extricated him, and turned to make good his retreat, when it seemed to strike the more brutal element in the crowd—mostly strangers to him—that here was the prime enemy of the cause, on foot amongst them, at their mercy! A rush was made at his back. He turned undaunted, White and two more at his side; the rabble recoiled. But when he wheeled again, a second rush was made, and they were upon him, and hustled him before he could turn. A man with a long stick struck off his hat, another—a lout with a cockade of amber and blue, the Whig colours—tried to trip him up. He stumbled, at the same moment a third man knocked White down.
“Yah! Down with him!” roared the crowd, “Down with the Borough-monger!”
But Vaughan, who had anticipated rather than seen the stumble, was over the rail, and cleaving the crowd, was at his side. He reached him a little in front of Bob Flixton, who had descended to the rescue from the other end of the booth. Vaughan hurled back the man who had tripped Sir Robert and who was still trying to throw him down; and the sight of the amber and blue which the new champion wore checked the assailants, and gave White time to rise.
Vaughan was furious. “Back, you cowards!” he cried fiercely. “Would you murder an old man? Shame on you! Shame!”
“Ay, you bullies!” cried Flixton, hitting one on the jaw very neatly—and completely disposing of that one for the day. “Back with you!”
As Vaughan spoke, half-a-dozen of his Tory supporters surrounded the baronet and bore him back out of danger. Though Sir Robert was undaunted, he was shaken; and breathing quickly, he let his hand rest for support on the nearest shoulder. It was Vaughan’s, and the next instant he saw that it was; and he withdrew the hand as if he had let it rest on a hot iron.
“Mr. Flixton,” he said—and the words reached a dozen ears at least, “your arm, if you please? I would rather be without this gentleman’s assistance.”
Vaughan’s face flamed. But neither the words nor the action took him unawares. He stepped back with dignity, slightly touched his hat, and so returned to his side of the hustings.
But he was wounded and very angry. Alone of his party he had intervened—and this was his reward. When Pybus pushed his way to his side and stooped to his ear, talking quickly and earnestly, he did not repel him.
Episode as it was, the affray startled Sir Robert’s friends: and White in particular took it very seriously. If violence of this sort was to rule, if even Sir Robert’s person was not respected, he saw that he would not be able to bring his voters to the poll. They would run some risk of losing their lives, and one or two for certain would not dare to vote. The thing must be stopped, and at once. With this in view he made his way to the passage at the back of the hustings, which was common to all three booths, and heated and angry—his lip was cut by the blow he had received—he called for Pybus. But the press at the back of the hustings was great, and one of White-Hat Williams’s foremen, who blocked the gangway, laughed in his face.