“Does the law indeed say so?”

“It does, Sir John.  The law, let me tell you, is very fierce against any reforming of religion.  Nay more, Sir John, under the first of King George the First, statute two—­I forget what chapter—­by the Act commonly called the Riot Act, it is enacted that if a dozen or more go about reforming of religion or otherwise upsetting the public peace and refuse to go about their business within the space of one hour after I tell ’em to, the same becomes felony without benefit of clergy.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Billy Priske, pulling off his hat and eyeing the rose in its band.

“And further,” his Worship continued, “any man wearing the badge or ensign of the rioters shall himself be considered a rioter without benefit of clergy.”

All this while the crowd had been pressing closer and closer upon us, under compulsion (as it seemed) of reinforcements from the waterside, the purlieus of the Market Strand being, by now, so crowded that men and women were crying out for room.  At this moment, glancing across the square, I was puzzled to see a woman leaning forth from a first-floor window and dropping handfuls of artificial flowers upon the heads of the throng.  While I watched, she retired—­her hands being empty—­came back with a band-box, and scattered its contents broadcast, pausing to blow a kiss towards the Mayor.

I plucked my father’s sleeve to call his attention to this; but he and the Mayor were engaged in argument, his Worship maintaining that the Methodists—­and my father that their assailants—­were the prime disturbers of the peace.

“And how, pray,” asked my father, “are these poor women to disperse, if your ruffians won’t let ’em?”

“As to that, sir, you shall see,” promised the Mayor, and turned to the town crier.  “John Sprott, call silence.  Make as much noise about it as you can, John Sprott.  And you, Nandy Daddo, catch hold of my horse’s bridle here.”

He rose in his stirrups and, searching again in his tail-pocket, drew forth a roll of paper.

“Silence!” bawled the crier.

“Louder, if you please, John Sprott:  louder, if you can manage it!  And say ‘In the name of King George,’ John Sprott; and wind up with ‘God save the King.’  For without ‘God save the King’ ’tis no riot, and a man cannot be hanged for it.  So be very particular to say ‘God save the King,’ John Sprott, and put ’em all in the wrong.”

John Sprott bawled again, and this time achieved the whole formula.

“That’s better, John Sprott.  And you—­” his Worship turned upon the Methodists, “you just listen to this, now—­”

“Our sovereign Lord the King—­”

Here, as the Methodists stood before him with folded hands, a lump of filth flew past the Mayor’s ear and bespattered the lamp-post.

“Damme, who did that?” his Worship demanded.  “John Sprott, who threw that muck?”