The Parson O' Dumford. Fenn George Manville

was rather hard work, and wanted no little elbowing, but, without a moment’s hesitation, the vicar began to force his way through the crowd; and as he got nearer to the hemmed in men, he could hear some of the words passing to and fro.

      “Why, one of them is my friend, Mr Richard Glaire,” said the vicar to himself, as he caught sight of the pale trembling figure, standing side by side with a heavy grizzled elderly workman, who stood there with his hat off, evidently bent on defending the younger man.

      “Yow come out o’ that, Joe Banks, an’ leave him to us,” roared a great bull-headed hammerman, who was evidently one of the ringleaders.

      “Keep off, you great coward,” was the answer.

      “Gie him a blob, Harry; gie him a blob,” shouted a voice.

      “My good men – my good men,” faltered Richard Glaire, trying to make himself heard; but there was a roar of rage and hatred, and the men pressed forward, fortunately carrying with them the vicar, and too intent upon their proposed victims to take any notice of the strange figure elbowing itself to the front.

      “Where are the police, Banks – the police?”

      “Yah! He wants the police,” shouted a shrill voice, which came from the man in the red waistcoat. “He’s trampled down the rights of man, and now he wants the brutal mummydons of the law.”

      “Yah!” roared the crowd, and they pressed on.

      “Banks, what shall we do?” whispered Glaire; “they’ll murder us.”

      “They won’t murder me,” said the foreman, stolidly.

      “But they will me. What shall we do?”

      “Faight,” said the foreman, sturdily.

      “I can’t fight. I’ll promise them anything,” groaned the young man. “Here, my lads,” he cried, “I’ll promise you – ”

      “Yah! You wean’t keep your promises,” roared those nearest. “Down with them. Get hold of him, Harry.”

      The big workman made a dash at Richard Glaire, and got him by the collar, dragging him from the wall just as the foreman, who tried to get before him, was good-humouredly baffled by half-a-dozen men, who took his blows for an instant, and then held him helpless against the bricks.

      It would have gone hard with the young owner of the works, for an English mob, when excited and urged to action, is brutal enough for the moment, before their manly feelings resume their sway, and shame creeps in to stare them in the face. He would probably have been hustled, his clothes torn from his back, and a rain of blows have fallen upon him till he sank exhausted, when he would have been kicked and trampled upon till he lay insensible, with half his ribs broken, and there he would have been left.

      “Police! Where are the police?” shouted the young man.

      “Shut themselves up to be safe,” roared a lusty voice; and the young man grew dizzy with fear, as he gazed wildly round at the sea of menacing faces screaming and struggling to get at him.

      As he cowered back a blow struck him on the forehead, and another on the lip, causing the blood to trickle down, while the great hammerman held him forward, struggling helplessly in his grasp.

      At that moment when, sick with fear and pain, Richard Glaire’s legs were failing him, and he was about to sink helpless among his men, something white seemed to whiz by his ear, to be followed instantly by a heavy thud. There was a jerk at his collar, and he would have fallen, but a strong arm was thrown before him; and then it seemed to him that the big workman Harry had staggered back amongst his friends, as a loud voice exclaimed:

      “Call yourselves Englishmen? A hundred to one!”

      The new vicar’s bold onslaught saved Richard Glaire for the moment, and the men fell back, freeing the foreman as they did so. It was only for the moment though, and then with a yell of fury the excited mob closed in upon their victims.

      Volume One – Chapter Six.

      Mother and Son

      Matters looked very bad for the new vicar, and for him he had tried to save, for though the foreman was now ready and free to lend his aid, and Richard Glaire, stung by his position into action, had recovered himself sufficiently to turn with all the feebleness of the trampled worm against his assailants, the fierce wave was ready to dash down upon them and sweep them away.

      Harry, the big hammerman, had somewhat recovered himself, and was shaking his head as if to get rid of a buzzing sensation, and murmurs loud and deep were arising, when the shrill voice of the man in the red waistcoat arose.

      “Now, lads, now’s your time. Trample down them as is always trampling on you and your rights. Smite ’em hip and thigh.”

      “Come on, and show ’em how to do it,” roared a sturdy voice, and Tom Podmore thrust himself before the vicar, and faced the mob. “Come on and show ’em how, Sim Slee; and let’s see as you ain’t all wind.”

      There was a derisive shout at this, and the man in the red waistcoat began again.

      “Down with them, boys. Down with Tom Podmore, too; he’s a sneak – a rat. Yah!”

      “I’ll rat you, you ranting bagpipe,” cried Tom, loudly. “Stand back, lads; this is new parson, and him as touches him has to come by me first. Harry, lad, come o’ my side; you don’t bear no malice again a man as can hit like that.”

      “Not I,” said Harry, thrusting his great head forward, to stare full in the vicar’s face. “Dal me, but you are a stout un, parson; gie’s your fist. It’s a hard un.”

      It was given on the instant, and the hearty pressure told the vicar that he had won a new ally.

      “As for the governor,” cried Tom, “you may do what you like wi’ him, lads, for I shan’t tak’ his part.”

      “Podmore,” whispered the vicar, “for Heaven’s sake be a man, and help me.”

      “I am a man, parson, and I’ll help you like one; but as for him” – he cried, darting a malignant look at Richard Glaire.

      He did not finish his sentence, for at that moment the man in the red waistcoat mounted a post, and cried again:

      “Down with ’em, lads; down with – ”

      He, too, did not finish his sentence, for at that moment, either by accident or malicious design, the orator was upset; and, so easily changed is the temper of a crowd, a loud laugh arose.

      But the danger was not yet passed, for those nearest seemed ready to drag their employer from his little body-guard.

      “You’ll help me then, Podmore?” cried the vicar, hastily. “Come, quick, to the gate.”

      The veins were swelling in Tom Podmore’s forehead, and he glanced as fiercely as any at his master, but the vicar’s advice seemed like a new law to him, and joining himself to his defenders, with the great hammerman, they backed slowly to the gate, through the wicket, by which Richard Glaire darted, and the others followed, the vicar coming last and facing the crowd.

      The little door in the great gates was clapped to directly, and then there came heavy blows with stones, and a few kicks, followed by a burst of hooting and yelling, after which the noise subsided, and the little party inside began to breathe more freely.

      “Thanky, Tom Podmore, my lad,” said Banks, shaking him by the hand. “I’m glad you turned up as you did.”

      Tom nodded in a sulky way, and glowered at his master, but he pressed the foreman’s hand warmly.

      “I’d fight for you, Joe Banks, till I dropped, if it was only for her sake; but not for him.”

      Meanwhile Harry, the big hammerman, was walking round the vicar and inspecting him, just as a great dog would look at a stranger.

      “Say, parson, can you wrastle?” he said at last.

      “Yes, a little,” was the reply, with a smile.

      “I’d