But Vaughan, who had anticipated rather than seen the stumble, was over the rail, and cleaving the crowd, was at his side. He reached him a little in front of Bob Flixton, who had descended to the rescue from the other end of the booth. Vaughan hurled back the man who had tripped Sir Robert and who was still trying to throw him down; and the sight of the amber and blue which the new champion wore checked the assailants, and gave White time to rise. Vaughan was furious. “Back, you cowards!” he cried fiercely. “Would you murder an old man? Shame on you! Shame!” “Ay, you bullies!” cried Flixton, hitting one on the jaw very neatly—and completely disposing of that one for the day. “Back with you!” As Vaughan spoke, half-a-dozen of his Tory supporters surrounded the baronet and bore him back out of danger. Though Sir Robert was undaunted, he was shaken; and breathing quickly, he let his hand rest for support on the nearest shoulder. It was Vaughan’s, and the next instant he saw that it was; and he withdrew the hand as if he had let it rest on a hot iron. “Mr. Flixton,” he said—and the words reached a dozen ears at least, “your arm, if you please? I would rather be without this gentleman’s assistance.” Vaughan’s face flamed. But neither the words nor the action took him unawares. He stepped back with dignity, slightly touched his hat, and so returned to his side of the hustings. But he was wounded and very angry. Alone of his party he had intervened—and this was his reward. When Pybus pushed his way to his side and stooped to his ear, talking quickly and earnestly, he did not repel him. Episode as it was, the affray startled Sir Robert’s friends: and White in particular took it very seriously. If violence of this sort was to rule, if even Sir Robert’s person was not respected, he saw that he would not be able to bring his voters to the poll. They would run some risk of losing their lives, and one or two for certain would not dare to vote. The thing must be stopped, and at once. With this in view he made his way to the passage at the back of the hustings, which was common to all three booths, and heated and angry—his lip was cut by the blow he had received—he called for Pybus. But the press at the back of the hustings was great, and one of White-Hat Williams’s foremen, who blocked the gangway, laughed in his face. “I want to speak to Pybus,” said White, glaring at the man, who on ordinary days would have touched his hat to him. “Then want’ll be your master,” the other retorted, with a wink. And when White tried to push by him, the man gave him the shoulder. “Let me pass,” White foamed. No thought of Cobbett now, had the agent! These miserable upstarts, their insolence, their certainty of triumph fired his blood. “Let me pass!” he repeated. “See you d——d first!” the other answered bluntly. “Your game’s up, old cock! Your master has held the pit long enough, but his time’s come.” “If you don’t——”