Vaughan looked down on the welter of moving faces. He saw that the stone-throwers were few, and the daredevils, who at times adventured to pull up the railings which guarded the forecourt, were fewer. But he saw also that the mass sympathised with them, egged them on, and applauded their exploits. And he wondered what would happen when night fell, and wondered again why the peaceable citizens who wrangled behind him made light of the position. The glass was flying, here and there an iron bar had vanished from the railings, night was approaching. For him it was very well. He had accompanied Brereton to Bristol to see what would happen, and for his part, if the adventure proved to be of the first class, so much the better. But the good pursy citizens behind him, who, when they were not deafening the little Mayor with their counsels, were making a jest of the turmoil, had wives and daughters, goods and houses within reach. And in their place he felt that he would have been far from easy. By and by it appeared that some of them shared his feelings. For presently, in a momentary lull of the babel outside, a voice he knew rose above those in the room. “Nothing? You call it nothing?” Mr. Cooke—for his was the voice—cried. “Nothing, that his Majesty’s Judge has been hooted and pelted from Totterdown to the Guildhall? Nothing, that the Recorder of Bristol has been hunted like a criminal from the Guildhall to this place! You call it nothing, sir, that his Majesty’s Commission has been flouted for six hours past by all the riffraff of the Docks? And with half of decent Bristol looking on and applauding!” “Oh, no, no!” the little Mayor remonstrated. “Not applauding, Mr. Cooke!” “Yes, sir, applauding!” Cooke retorted with vigour. “And teach Wetherell a lesson!” someone in the background muttered. The man spoke low, but Cooke heard the words and wheeled about. “There, sir, there!” he cried, stuttering in his indignation. “What do you say to that? Here, in your presence, the King’s Judge is insulted. But I warn you,” he continued, “I warn you all! You are playing with fire! You are laughing in your sleeves, but you’ll cry in your shirts! You, Mr. Mayor, I call upon you to do your duty! I call upon you to summon the military and give the order to clear the streets before worse comes of it.” “I don’t—I really don’t—think that it is necessary,” the Mayor answered pacifically. “I have seen as bad as this at half a dozen elections, Mr. Cooke.” The Town-clerk, a tall, thin man, who still wore his gown though he had laid aside his wig, struck in. “Quite true, Mr. Mayor!” he said. “The fact is, the crowd thinks itself hardly used on these occasions if it is not allowed to break the windows and do a little mischief on the lower floor.” “By G—d, I’d teach it a lesson then!” Cooke retorted. “It seems to me it is time someone did!”