In a few moments the little Secretary met the mob. The pen hesitates on the word, for there is a respectable difference, measurable only on the scale of the half century, between a mob and a _charivari_. Little White lifted his ineffectual voice. He faced the head of the disorderly column, and cast himself about as if he were made of wood and moved by the jerk of a string. He rushed to one who seemed, from the size and clatter of his tin pan, to be a leader. "_Stop these fellows, Bienvenu, stop them just a minute, till I tell them something_." Bienvenu turned and brandished his instruments of discord in an imploring way to the crowd. They slackened their pace, two or three hushed their horns and joined the prayer of little White and Bienvenu for silence. The throng halted. The hush was delicious. "Bienvenu," said little White, "don't shivaree old Poquelin to-night; he's"-- "My fwang," said the swaying Bienvenu, "who tail you I goin' to chahivahi somebody, eh? Yon sink bickause I make a little playfool wiz zis tin pan zat I am _dhonk_?" "Oh, no, Bienvenu, old fellow, you're all right. I was afraid you might not know that old Poquelin was sick, you know, but you're not going there, are you?" "My fwang, I vay soy to tail you zat you ah dhonk as de dev'. I am _shem_ of you. I ham ze servan' of ze _publique_. Zese _citoyens_ goin' to wickwest Jean Poquelin to give to the Ursuline' two hondred fifty dolla'"-- "_Hé quoi_!" cried a listener, "_Cinq cent piastres, oui_!" "_Oui_!" said Bienvenu, "and if he wiffuse we make him some lit' _musique_; ta-ra ta!" He hoisted a merry hand and foot, then frowning, added: "Old Poquelin got no bizniz dhink s'much w'isky." "But, gentlemen," said little White, around whom a circle had gathered, "the old man is very sick." "My faith!" cried a tiny Creole, "we did not make him to be sick. W'en we have say we going make _le charivari_, do you want that we hall tell a lie? My faith! 'sfools!" "But you can shivaree somebody else," said desperate little White. "_Oui_" cried Bienvenu, "_et chahivahi_ Jean-ah Poquelin tomo'w!" "Let us go to Madame Schneider!" cried two or three, and amid huzzas and confused cries, among which was heard a stentorian Celtic call for drinks, the crowd again began to move. "_Cent piastres pour l'hôpital de charité_!" "Hurrah!" "One hongred dolla' for Charity Hospital!" "Hurrah!" "Whang!" went a tin pan, the crowd yelled, and Pandemonium gaped again. They were off at a right angle. Nodding, Mrs. White looked at the mantle-clock. "Well, if it isn't away after midnight." The hideous noise down street was passing beyond earshot. She raised a sash and listened. For a moment there was silence. Some one came to the door. "Is that you, White?" "Yes." He entered. "I succeeded, Patty." "Did you?" said Patty, joyfully.