I do not know that there was any need that he should speak of intimidation.  No one has accused the right honourable gentleman of political cowardice.  But, as he has so said, I will follow in his footsteps.  Neither will I be intimidated by the large majority which this House presented the other night against the wishes of the people.  I will support no great measure of reform which does not include the ballot among its clauses.”  And so Mr. Turnbull threw down the gauntlet.

Mr. Turnbull spoke for two hours, and then the debate was adjourned till the Monday.  The adjournment was moved by an independent member, who, as was known, would support the Government, and at once received Mr. Turnbull’s assent.  There was no great hurry with the bill, and it was felt that it would be well to let the ferment subside.  Enough had been done for glory when Mr. Mildmay moved the second reading, and quite enough in the way of debate,—­with such an audience almost within hearing,—­when Mr. Turnbull’s speech had been made.  Then the House emptied itself at once.  The elderly, cautious members made their exit through the peers’ door.  The younger men got out into the crowd through Westminster Hall, and were pushed about among the roughs for an hour or so.  Phineas, who made his way through the hall with Laurence Fitzgibbon, found Mr. Turnbull’s carriage waiting at the entrance with a dozen policemen round it.

“I hope he won’t get home to dinner before midnight,” said Phineas.

“He understands all about it,” said Laurence.  “He had a good meal at three, before he left home, and you’d find sandwiches and sherry in plenty if you were to search his carriage.  He knows how to remedy the costs of mob popularity.”

At that time poor Bunce was being hustled about in the crowd in the vicinity of Mr. Turnbull’s carriage.  Phineas and Fitzgibbon made their way out, and by degrees worked a passage for themselves into Parliament Street.  Mr. Turnbull had been somewhat behind them in coming down the hall, and had not been without a sense of enjoyment in the ovation which was being given to him.  There can be no doubt that he was wrong in what he was doing.  That affair of the carriage was altogether wrong, and did Mr. Turnbull much harm for many a day afterwards.  When he got outside the door, where were the twelve policemen guarding his carriage, a great number of his admirers endeavoured to shake hands with him.  Among them was the devoted Bunce.  But the policemen seemed to think that Mr. Turnbull was to be guarded, even from the affection of his friends, and were as careful that he should be ushered into his carriage untouched, as though he had been the favourite object of political aversion for the moment.  Mr. Turnbull himself, when he began to perceive that men were crowding close upon the gates, and to hear the noise, and to feel, as it were, the breath of the mob, stepped on quickly into his carriage.  He said a word or two in a loud voice.  “Thank you, my friends.  I trust you may obtain all your just demands.”  But he did not pause to speak.  Indeed, he could hardly have done so, as the policemen were manifestly in a hurry.  The carriage was got away at a snail’s pace;—­but there remained in the spot where the carriage had stood the makings of a very pretty street row.