The groans were given before the crowd fully understood their meaning or the motive for the stoppage. The drummer beat out something which he meant for the Rogues’ March, and an unseen hand raising a large dead rat, tied to a stick, waved it before the butcher’s first-floor windows.
The effect was surprising—to old-fashioned folk. In a twinkling, with a shout of “Down with the Borough-mongers!” a gang of white-aproned clothmen rushed the rear of the procession, drove it in upon the main body, and amid screams and uproar forced the whole line out of the narrow street into the space before the Abbey. Fortunately the White Lion, which faced the Abbey, stood only a score of paces to the left of the Cross, and the carriages were able to reach it; but in disorder, pressed on by such a fighting, swaying, shouting crowd as Chippinge had not seen for many a year.
It was no time to stand on dignity. The candidates tumbled out as best they could, their chief supporters followed them, and while half a dozen single combats proceeded at their elbows, they hastened across the pavement into the house. The Rector alone disdained to flee. Once on the threshold of the inn, he turned and raised his hat above his head:
“Order!” he cried, “Order! Do you hear me!”
But “Yah! Borough-monger!” the rabble answered, and before he could say more a young farmer was hurled against him, and a whip, of which a postillion had just been despoiled, whizzed past his head. He, too, turned tail at that, with his face a shade paler than usual; and with his retreat resistance ceased. The carriages were hustled somehow and anyhow into the yard, and there the greater part of the procession also took refuge. A few, sad to say, sneaked off and got rid of their badges, and a few more escaped through a neighbouring alley. No one was much hurt; a few black eyes were the worst of the mischief, nor could it be said that any vindictive feeling was shown. But the town was swept clear, and the victory of the Radicals was complete. Left in possession of the open space before the Abbey, they paraded for some time under the windows of the White Lion, waving a captured flag, and cheering and groaning by turns.
Meantime in the hall of the inn the grandees were smoothing their ruffled plumes, in a state of mind in which it was hard to say whether indignation or astonishment had larger place. Oaths flew thick as hail, unrebuked by the Church, the most outspoken perhaps being by the landlord, who met them with a pale face.
“Good Lord, good Lord, gentlemen!” he said, “what violence! What violence! What are we coming to next? What’s took the people, gentlemen? Isn’t Sir Robert here?”
For to this simple person it seemed impossible that people should behave badly in that presence.
“No, he’s not!” Mr. Cooke answered with choler. “I’d like to know why he’s not! I wish to Heaven”—only he did not say “Heaven”—“that he were here, and he’d see what sort of thing he has let us into!”
“Ah, well, ah, well!” returned the more discreet and philosophic Sergeant, “shouting breaks no bones. We are all here, I hope? And after all, this shows up the Bill in a pretty strong light, eh, Rector? If it is to be carried by methods such as these—these—”