But his speech was broken in upon by a sudden commotion in the street.  Loud cries of a different tenor arose at various points; the boys who had been hanging upon the window ledge dropped to the ground; the crowd surged this way and that, and above the mingled clamor sounded a wild and fearful squeal that drew many of the company to their feet and several in alarm to the window.

Among these the bailiff, now red with anger, shook his fist at the people and demanded the meaning of the disturbance.  A small boy, his eyes round with excitement, piped up: 

“An’t please yer worship, ‘tis a wild Injun come from nowheer an’ doin’ all manner o’ wickedness.”

“A wild Injun!  Cotch him!  Ring the ’larum bell!  Put him in the stocks!”

But the bailiff’s commands passed unheeded.  The people were thronging up the street, elbowing each other, treading on each other’s toes, yelling, booing, forgetful of all save the strange coincidence that, on this evening of all others, the banquet in honor of Clive, the Indian hero, had been interrupted by the sudden appearance of a live Indian in their very midst.

A curious change had come over the demeanor of the stranger, who hitherto had been so silent, so detached in manner, so unmoved.  He was now to be seen energetically forcing his way toward the outskirts of the crowd, heaving, hurling, his long arms sweeping obstacles aside.  His eyes flashed fire upon the yokels skurrying before him, a vitriolic stream of abuse scorched their faces as he bore them down.

At length he stopped suddenly, caught a hulking farmer by the shoulder, and, with a violent twist and jerk, flung him headlong among his fellows.  Released from the man’s grasp, a small negro boy, his eyes starting, his breast heaving with terror, sprang to the side of his deliverer, who soothingly patted his woolly head, and turned at bay upon the crowd, now again pressing near.

“Back, you boobies!” he shouted. “’Tis my boy!  If a man of you follows me, I’ll break his head for him.”

He turned and, clasping the black boy’s hand close in his, strode away towards the waiting cart.  The crowd stood in hesitation, daunted by the tall stranger’s fierce mien.  But one came out from among them, a slim boy of some fifteen years, who had followed at the heels of the stranger and had indeed assisted his progress.  The rest, disappointed of their Indian hunt, were now moving back towards the inn; but the boy hastened on.  Hearing his quick footsteps, the man swung around with a snarl.

“I hope the boy isn’t hurt,” said the lad quietly.  “Can I do anything for you?”

The stranger looked keenly at him; then, recognizing by his mien and voice that this at least was no booby, he smiled; the truculence of his manner vanished, and he said: 

“Your question is pat, my excellent friend, and I thank you for your goodwill.  As you perceive, my withers are not wrung.”