A moment afterwards, the street was illumined by a blaze of torchlight, and a tumultuous uproar, mixed with the clashing of weapons, and the braying of horns, announced the arrival of the first detachment of Minters.
Mr. Wood rushed instantly to meet them.
“Hurrah!” shouted he, waving his hat triumphantly over his head. “Saved!”
“Ay, ay, it's all bob, my covey! You're safe enough, that's certain!” responded the Minters, baying, yelping, leaping, and howling around him like a pack of hounds when the huntsman is beating cover; “but, where are the lurchers?”
“Who?” asked Wood.
“The traps!” responded a bystander.
“The shoulder-clappers!” added a lady, who, in her anxiety to join the party, had unintentionally substituted her husband's nether habiliments for her own petticoats.
“The ban-dogs!” thundered a tall man, whose stature and former avocations had procured him the nickname of “The long drover of the Borough market.”
“Where are they?”
“Ay, where are they?” chorussed the mob, flourishing their various weapons, and flashing their torches in the air; “we'll starve 'em out.”