P.C. Arthur Jobling came forward in his most official manner.
"Move along there, please," he said. "Make way there; let the gentleman pass."
There was a scornful laugh.
"You just get out o' the light, Artie Jobling," said the voice of Mrs. Rudd. "We don't want to 'urt you, on'y this murderin' villain 'ere."
Alf felt a crawling sensation in his spine. He was far more frightened than he had ever been in the trenches. His knees shook and his teeth showed signs of chattering. On every side of him were menacing eyes and the crowd seemed to be all round him. Suddenly the whole group, as if impelled by a common will, took one step towards him. Alf lost the last small remnants of his nerve. He put down his head; selecting a part of the crowd as remote as possible from Mrs. Myers and the meat-ax, he charged blindly with whirling fists. There was a frantic moment's mêlée while the crowd, taken by surprise, rallied round the affected sector. But they were too late. Alf had burst through them and was fleeing up the drive. His cheek was bleeding from a scratch, his knuckles were torn by rude impact with somebody's teeth and his topper had finally and irrevocably disappeared. With shrieks of rage the crowd turned and pursued him, led by Mrs. Myers. Only the octogenarian remained. He found an outlet for his indignation by reducing Alf's hat to tattered fragments with his stick. P.C. Jobling, having decided that this was a matter altogether beyond his power, was pacing majestically towards the village.
At the corner of the drive the pursuers stopped, daunted. Alf rushed on with labored breath and heaving chest to the shelter of the house. A few stones rattled on the drive far short of him—he was thankful that the assembly consisted mainly of women.
He dashed into the hall. The first thing that met his eye was that bone of contention, Master Bobby Myers, under the guard of six enormous negroes with drawn scimitars. Bobby was quite undisturbed. His chief emotions seemed to be pride at the amount of attention he was receiving and the wonderful adventure he was living through, and a complacent anticipation of the important position he would hold as soon as he escaped from his present predicament and returned to the village.
Alf flung himself on to a cushioned divan to get back his breath. He was conscious of the presence of Mustapha, who bowed low and appeared to wish to speak. But Alf also wished to speak.
"'Ere, Farr," he said sharply, "what the 'ell 'ave you been up to this time, eh? Nice sort o' fool you make of yerself as soon as I turn me back."
"Lord," returned Mustapha, "verily the people of the land did attack thy servants as they were returning in peace from the palace of the father of thy maiden, setting upon them with missiles and imprecations. Then did thy servants seize upon this boy, for he was foremost in the throwing of the missiles. If it be thy will, command thy servants that he be forthwith slain."