Two or three expressed the same opinion, though they did so with less decision. But the main part smiled at Cooke’s heat as at a foolish display of temper. “I’ve seen as much half a dozen times,” said one, shrugging his shoulders. “And no harm done!” “I’ve seen worse!” another answered. “And after all,” the speaker added with a wink, “it is good for the glaziers.” Fortunately, Cooke did not hear this last. But Vaughan heard it, and he judged that the rioters had their backers within as well as without; and that within, as without, the notion prevailed that the Government would not be best pleased if the movement were too roughly checked. An old proverb about the wisdom of dealing with the beginnings of mischief occurred to him. But he supposed that the authorities knew their business and Bristol, and, more correctly than he, could gauge the mob and the danger, of both of which they made so light. Still he wondered. And he wondered more three minutes later. Two servants brought in lights. Unfortunately the effect of these was to reveal the interior of the room to the mob, and the change was the signal for a fusillade of stones so much more serious and violent than anything which had gone before that a quick _sauve qui peut_ took place. Vaughan was dislodged with the others—he could do no good by remaining; and in two minutes the room was empty, and the mob were celebrating their victory with peals of titanic laughter, accompanied by fierce cries of “Throw him out! Throw out the d——d Recorder! Reform!” Meanwhile the company, with one broken head and one or two pale faces, had taken refuge on the landing behind the drawing-room, the stairs ascending to which were guarded by a reserve of constables. Vaughan saw that the Mayor and his satellites were beginning to look at one another, and leaning, quietly observant, against the wall, he noticed that more than one was shaken. Still the little Mayor retained his good-humour. “Oh, dear, dear!” he said indulgently. “This is too bad! Really too bad!” “We’d better go upstairs,” Sergeant Ludlow, the Town-clerk, suggested. “We can see what passes as well from that floor as from this, and with less risk!” “No, but really this is growing serious,” a third said timidly. “It’s too bad, this.” He had scarcely spoken, and the Mayor was still standing undecided, as if he did not quite like the idea of retreat, when two persons, one with his head bandaged, came quickly up the stairs. “Where’s the Mayor?” cried the first. And then, “Mr. Mayor, they are pushing us too hard,” said the second, an officer of special constables. “We must have help, or they will pull the house about our ears.” “Oh, nonsense!” “But it’s not nonsense, sir,” the man answered angrily. “But——” “You must read the Riot Act, sir,” the other, who was the Under-Sheriff, chimed in. “And the sooner the better, Mr. Mayor,” he added with decision. “We’ve half a dozen men badly hurt. In my opinion you should send for the military.”