Bunce had striven hard to shake hands with his hero,—­Bunce and some other reformers as ardent and as decent as himself.  The police were very determinate that there should be no such interruption to their programme for getting Mr. Turnbull off the scene.  Mr. Bunce, who had his own ideas as to his right to shake hands with any gentleman at Westminster Hall who might choose to shake hands with him, became uneasy under the impediments that were placed in his way, and expressed himself warmly as to his civil rights.  Now a London policeman in a political row is, I believe, the most forbearing of men.  So long as he meets with no special political opposition, ordinary ill-usage does not even put him out of temper.  He is paid for rough work among roughs, and takes his rubs gallantly.  But he feels himself to be an instrument for the moment of despotic power as opposed to civil rights, and he won’t stand what he calls “jaw.”  Trip up a policeman in such a scramble, and he will take it in good spirit; but mention the words “Habeas Corpus,” and he’ll lock you up if he can.  As a rule, his instincts are right; for the man who talks about “Habeas Corpus” in a political crowd will generally do more harm than can be effected by the tripping up of any constable.  But these instincts may be the means of individual injustice.  I think they were so when Mr. Bunce was arrested and kept a fast prisoner.  His wife had shown her knowledge of his character when she declared that he’d be “took” if any one was “took.”

Bunce was taken into custody with some three or four others like himself,—­decent men, who meant no harm, but who thought that as men they were bound to show their political opinions, perhaps at the expense of a little martyrdom,—­and was carried into a temporary stronghold, which had been provided for the necessities of the police, under the clock-tower.

“Keep me, at your peril!” said Bunce, indignantly.

“We means it,” said the sergeant who had him in custody.

“I’ve done no ha’porth to break the law,” said Bunce.

“You was breaking the law when you was upsetting my men, as I saw you,” said the sergeant.

“I’ve upset nobody,” said Bunce.

“Very well,” rejoined the sergeant; “you can say it all before the magistrate, to-morrow.”

“And am I to be locked up all night?” said Bunce.

“I’m afraid you will,” replied the sergeant.

Bunce, who was not by nature a very talkative man, said no more; but he swore in his heart that there should be vengeance.  Between eleven and twelve he was taken to the regular police-station, and from thence he was enabled to send word to his wife.

“Bunce has been taken,” said she, with something of the tragic queen, and something also of the injured wife in the tone of her voice, as soon as Phineas let himself in with the latchkey between twelve and one.  And then, mingled with, and at last dominant over, those severer tones, came the voice of the loving woman whose beloved one was in trouble.  “I knew how it’d be, Mr. Finn.  Didn’t I?  And what must we do?  I don’t suppose he’d had a bit to eat from the moment he went out;—­and as for a drop of beer, he never thinks of it, except what I puts down for him at his meals.  Them nasty police always take the best.  That’s why I was so afeard.”