“We're a gonter tie ye up an give it to ye on the bare back.” “We'll give ye a dose o' yer own med'cin.” “I don' wanter hurt ye, sis, but ye muss git aout o' the way,” said a burly fellow to Eliza, who, with her mother, had thrown herself between the mob and Justice Dwight, his undaunted aspect appearing to excite the special animosity of the rabble. The other three justices were huddled in the furthest corner. “It's all right, men, it's all right. No need of any more words. Here's the paper,” said Perez, authoritatively. A man caught it from his hand and gave it to another, saying, “Here, Pete, ye kin read. Wot does it say?” Pete took the document in both hands, grasping it with unnecessary firmness, as if he depended in some degree on physical force to overcome the difficulties of decipherment, and proceeded slowly and with tremendous frowns to spell it out. “We-promise-not-to-ak--under--our-c--o--m,--commishins until-the--g--r--i--e--grievunces,”-- “Wot be them?” demanded one of the crowd. “That means taxes, 'n loryers, 'n debts, 'n all that. I've hearn the word afore,” exclaimed another. “G'long Pete.” “Grievunces,” proceeded the reader, “of-wich-the-people-complain.” “That's so.” “That's dern good. In course we complains.” “Is that writ so, Pete?” “G'long, Pete, that ere's good.” “Complains,” began the reader again. “Go back tew the beginnin Pete, I los' the hang on't.” “Yes, go back a leetle, Pete. It be mos'z long ez a sermon.” “Shell I begin tew the beginnin?” “Yes, begin tew the beginnin agin, so's we'll all on us git the hang.” “We--promise--not-tew-ak--under--our-commishins, until--the--g--r--grievunces--of--wich--the--people--complain, are--r--e--d--r--redressed.” “Wot's redressed?” “That's same ez 'bolished.” “Here be the names,” pursued Pete. “Charles Goodrich.” “He's the feller ez loss his hat.” “William Whiting.” “James Barker.” “Elijah Dwight.” “It's false,” exclaimed Dwight, “my name's not there!” But few, if any, heard or heeded his words, for at the moment Pete pronounced the last name, Perez shouted: “Now, men, we've done this job, let's go to the jail and let out the debtors, come on,” and suiting action to word he rushed out, and was followed pell-mell by the yelling crowd, all their truculent enthusiasm instantly diverted into this new channel. The four justices, and the wife and daughter of Dwight, alone remained in the room. Even the people who had been staring in, with their noses flattened against the window panes, had rushed away to the new point of interest. Dwight stood steadfastly looking at his daughter, with a stern and Rhadamanthine gaze, in which, nevertheless, grief and reproachful surprise, not less than indignation, were expressed. The girl shrinking behind her mother, seemed more in terror than when the mob had burst into the room.