Meantime Mr. Harwood was apprising his friends of the state of affairs, and these were beginning to gather at his house. One of them, an employee of Mr. Coleman, as he came up the hill, found a number of flags already set to guide the mob to the Harwood residence. These were torn down. Before the arrival of Mr. Coleman a crowd of excited people had assembled in the street below the house. Seeing among them an officer notorious for his cupidity and in entire sympathy with the slave catchers, Mr. Coleman approached him and shaking hands said, “Why how do you do, Mr. O’Neil? I am told you have a search warrant for my house.” “For your house?” “Yes; here is where I live and I wish to know on what grounds you intend to search my house, as I am not aware of having laid myself liable to such a process.” “There must be some mistake,” said the officer. “Indeed, Mr. Coleman, I must have been misinformed as to the merits of the case.” “Let me see the paper,” persisted Mr. Coleman. “No,” said O’Neil, “there is a blunder somewhere,” and he pushed his way, in a discomfited manner, through the crowd and disappeared. As the crowd increased in the streets, the friends of Mr. Harwood arrived, until all the Abolitionists in the city, some forty in number, were present. Mr. Harwood stood on the front steps with Swamp, and when anyone evinced a purpose to ascend the steps the fine display of ivory in the dog’s mouth cooled his ardor. Mr. Coleman and Alf. Burnet, afterwards well known in anti-slavery circles, went to a Dutch armory and secured a quantity of arms and ammunition; the women took up the carpet in the parlor, which soon presented the appearance of a military bivouac, whilst papers and valuables were hurried off to other houses, and a strong guard was placed before the door. An application was made to the sheriff for protection, but he only replied, “If you make yourself obnoxious to your neighbors, you must suffer the consequences.” Whilst Scanlan was making his inflammatory speeches down town, and subsidizing the saloons, Lavinia was redressing in her boy’s suit and was quietly taken out on a back street to a Mr. Emery’s, the crowd meanwhile crying, “Bring out the lousy huzzy; where is the black b——ch?” and other equally classic expressions. One blear-eyed ruffian exclaimed, “If my property was in thar, I’d have it or I’d have the d—d Abolitionist’s heart’s blood, I would.” Another one, equally valorous called out, “Go in boys; why don’t you go in?” and a score of voices responded, “Go in yourself. The nigger ain’t ourn. Where’s the boss? Guess he’s afraid of shootin’ irons,” a feeling that evidently pervaded the whole assemblage.