“There’s King-Harman,” remarked Hastings, “let us stick near him; there’s bound to be a row before morning, and we may as well be together. Can you run, Bobby? Not with that cape, though; you’ll have to chuck that; but what does it matter, it’s done its duty, and it’s unworthy of a less honourable distinction?”
“Yes,” replied Bobby. “I don’t fancy wearing it after those infernal rats. But why should there be a row?”
“A row, man,” replied his mentor, “of course there’ll be a row; what did we come here for but a row? What did King-Harman come here for, do you suppose, but a row? And look here, when they turn the gas out—as they always do—run like blazes; you’re not safe till you get to Chelsea Hospital, and don’t run into the arms of a policeman; they sometimes stop chaps running, on spec.,” and with these words of wisdom they mingled with the crowd.
The expected dénouement was not long in coming, and in a second, and without apparent warning, sticks were crashing down on top hats, tumblers flying in every direction, and fists coming in contact with anything or anybody whose proximity seemed to suggest it.
The fiddlers had meanwhile made a hasty retreat, the gas was put out, and with the exception here and there of an illumination (a dip steeped in oil), the free fight continued till a bevy of police appeared upon the scene.
Sauve qui peut was then the word, and helter skelter, old and young, Jew and Gentile, soiled doves and hereditary legislators dashed like the proverbial herd of swine towards the gates. Often did this stampede continue for a mile, till straggling cabs, on their way to their stables, picked up the stragglers, and landed them in less disturbed districts. But the night was by no means over, not certainly the Derby night for roysterers like Lord Hastings.
“We’ll have a rasher of bacon, Bobby,” he explained, as they descended in Piccadilly Circus. “Why, it’s barely five o’clock,” and they entered an unpretentious coffee-house in rear of the colonnade, much frequented by roysterers and market gardeners.
“Qui hi;” shouted a voice as they took their seats in an uncomfortable pew, and old Jim Stewart, of the 93rd, and a companion hailed them from behind a mountain of eggs and bacon.
But their adventures were not to end with this wholesome repast, as, coming out, they espied an empty cart, into which they all proceeded to climb.
“Hi, master,” shouted the owner, disturbed at his meal, “that be moine.”