“They seem,” with a touch of sternness, “to be carrying the jest rather too far.”
“Mr. Cooke,” the Mayor said, “wishes me to call out the military.”
Wetherell shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “The occasion is not so serious as to justify that. You cannot say that life is in danger?”
The Under-Sheriff put himself forward. “I can say, sir,” he answered firmly, “that yours is in danger. And in serious danger!”
Wetherell planted his feet further apart, and thrust his hands lower into his pockets. “Oh, no, no,” he said.
“It is yes, yes, sir,” the Under-Sheriff replied bluntly. “Unless you leave the house I cannot be responsible! I cannot, indeed, Sir Charles.”
“But——”
“Listen, sir! If you don’t wish a very terrible catastrophe to happen, you must go! By G—d you must!” the Under-Sheriff repeated, forgetting his manners.
The noise below had swollen suddenly. Cries, blows, and shrieks rose up the staircase, and announced that at any moment the party above might have to defend their lives. At the prospect suddenly presented, respect for dignities took flight; panic seized the majority. Constables, thrusting aldermen and magistrates aside, raced up the stairs, and bundled down again laden with beds with which to block the windows: while the picked men who had hitherto guarded the foot of the staircase left their posts in charge of two or three of the wounded, who groaned dismally. Apparently the mob had broken into part of the ground floor, and were with difficulty held at bay.
One of the party struck his hand on the balusters—it was Mr. Cooke. “By Heavens!” he said, “this is what comes of your d——d Reform! Your d——d Reform! We shall all be murdered, every man of us! Murdered!”