Anything to get away from that odious crowd. If the distance had been twice as far, Charlie would have undertaken it.
It was long enough, however, before they got away from the crowd. The road from Gurley to Sharle Bridge was alive for a mile and more with vehicles, drunken men and women, beggars and pickpockets. On either side of the road were jugglers, and thimble-riggers, and card-sharpers, who each attracted their crowd of simpletons. Many were the fights and riots that attended these eager assemblages. As they passed one booth, the headquarters of a blustering card-sharper, a sudden disturbance arose which threatened to block the entire road. The man had offered a sovereign to any one of his audience who could tell which of three cards he held uppermost in his hand. One voice called out a number. The man shuffled his cards, and by some slip on his part the guess of the speculator turned out correct. Instantly that youth demanded his sovereign, which the man refused, vowing and calling others to witness that another number had been guessed.
“I’ll bring the police,” cried the voice, and instantly there was a movement in the group as of some one endeavouring to force his way out.
“Knock him over!” some one cried; “he’s only one of them donkey schoolboys. What business have they here at all?” And at the signal two or three of the juggler’s accomplices made a dash at the retreating youth and seized him.
“Souse him in the river!” cried somebody else.
“Sit on him!” shouted a third.
In the midst of these contradictory advices the roughs lifted their struggling victim from his feet, and proceeded to carry him in the direction of the bridge.
In the momentary glimpse which Charlie got of the wretched object of this persecution, he recognised, to his horror and astonishment, Tom Drift, livid with terror, frantic with rage, and yelling with pain.
“Jim,” cried Charlie, “that’s Tom Drift! Oh! can’t we help him? Will you try, Jim! Poor Tom!”
“Is he one of them four as brought you here?” asked Jim, not offering to move.