But Jake’s idea of “letting ’em have it” was of a more substantial sort than mere words. Stooping down, he armed himself with a couple of ale bottles, and flourishing one in each hand, he threatened one and all of his aggressors. “Eh! eh! is it growing vicious?” called out some one with a shout of laughter. The ale bottle flew from Jake’s right hand and knocked off the hat of the speaker. “Oh, I say! look here! none of that now, you know! that’s carrying things a little too far even for the Derby Day!” exclaimed the bare-headed individual, groping in vain for his hat, but keeping his good humor. “Oh! see here, governor! Here’s your ape getting dangerous! chain it hup before it ’urts some un!” sang out another. Away flew the other ale bottle and struck this counsellor in the chest and knocked him heels over head. “Hi! ho! here! where’s the police!” called out a half score of voices. But the police were not forthcoming, and the floored man picked himself up, laughing merrily and saying good-humoredly: “Boys, we’re getting the worst of it! Better let the gorilla alone!” But the General turned to his coachman, frowning. “Jacob. I am ashamed of you! Here’s a set of poor fellows out for their rare holiday chaffing you a little with harmless words, and you answer them with hard blows!” “You told me to ‘let ’em have it,’” muttered Jake. “But not in _blows_; in _words_, you stupid fellow!” “I couldn’t answer ’em so.” “But suppose they retorted in kind? They can throw missiles as well as you can.” “They are welkim!” grumbled Jake. “What, and hurt and maybe kill the ladies? Jake I’m more ashamed of you than ever.” A commotion in the crowd ahead, a gradual unloosening of the lock of wheels, warned our travelers that the way was clear, and carriages of all sorts moved on, at first slowly, and then as the throng thinned more rapidly, until it began to look like the multitudinous race of fast trotting horses in harness on the Bloomingdale Road. And the quiet “chaffing” became hilarious shouting as one after another of fast drivers distanced all competitors. And now indeed the Derby dust arose in clouds like the sirocco of the desert until every man and mother’s son had to put on a veil. Old General Lyon resisted the fate as long as he could, until, as Harry Spencer had predicted, his eyes, ears nostrils and bronchial tubes were all so much obstructed that he was nearly blinded, deafened, suffocated and overwhelmed. Then he let Anna dust off his face and head with an extra pocket-handkerchief, and tie a gray veil about his hat, as they drove on. “I wish some sort of a veil could be contrived to protect these hedges,” said Anna, pointing to the boundaries of the road on the right and left. “It is a sin to cover these lovely green hedges with a thick coat of dust. But, oh, grandpa! look, there’s poetry for you! look at that sign!”