He was just half a second too late; the soot bag, swung like a club, missed Shan, and, catching Mr. Boxall fair and square on the side of the face, sent him spinning like a tee-totum across the road, and head over heels into the ditch.
That was all.
A dead silence took the yelling crowd.
“He’s kilt!” came a voice.
“He isn’t; sure, his legs is wavin’.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s the Mimber of Parlyment! Run for your life, and don’t lave off runnin’ till you’re out of the country.”
“Hold your tongue!” cried General Grampound. “Boxall—hullo! Boxall! are you hurt?”
“I’m all right,” replied Mr. Boxall, who, from being legs upwards, was now on hands and knees in the ditch. “I’ve lost something—dash it!”
“What have you lost?”