[Suddenly a voice rises clear out of the hurly-burly in the
     street.]

Voice.  There ’e is!  That’s ’im!  More!  Traitor!  More!

A shower of nutshells, orange-peel, and harmless missiles begins to rattle against the glass of the window.  Many voices take up the groaning:  “More!  Traitor!  Black-leg!  More!” And through the window can be seen waving flags and lighted Chinese lanterns, swinging high on long bamboos.  The din of execration swells.  More stands unheeding, still gazing after the cab.  Then, with a sharp crack, a flung stone crashes through one of the panes.  It is followed by a hoarse shout of laughter, and a hearty groan.  A second stone crashes through the glass.  More turns for a moment, with a contemptuous look, towards the street, and the flare of the Chinese lanterns lights up his face.  Then, as if forgetting all about the din outside, he moves back into the room, looks round him, and lets his head droop.  The din rises louder and louder; a third stone crashes through.  More raises his head again, and, clasping his hands, looks straight before him.  The footman, Henry, entering, hastens to the French windows.

More.  Ah!  Henry, I thought you’d gone.

Footman.  I came back, sir.

More.  Good fellow!

Footman.  They’re trying to force the terrace gate, sir.  They’ve no business coming on to private property—­no matter what!

In the surging entrance of the mob the footman, Henry, who shows fight, is overwhelmed, hustled out into the crowd on the terrace, and no more seen.  The mob is a mixed crowd of revellers of both sexes, medical students, clerks, shop men and girls, and a Boy Scout or two.  Many have exchanged hats—­Some wear masks, or false noses, some carry feathers or tin whistles.  Some, with bamboos and Chinese lanterns, swing them up outside on the terrace.  The medley of noises is very great.  Such ringleaders as exist in the confusion are a group of students, the chief of whom, conspicuous because unadorned, is an athletic, hatless young man with a projecting underjaw, and heavy coal-black moustache, who seems with the swing of his huge arms and shoulders to sway the currents of motion.  When the first surge of noise and movement subsides, he calls out:  “To him, boys!  Chair the hero!” The students rush at the impassive more, swing him roughly on to their shoulders and bear him round the room.  When they have twice circled the table to the music of their confused singing, groans and whistling, the chief of the students calls out:  “Put him down!” Obediently they set him down on the table which has been forced into the bay window, and stand gaping up at him.

Chief student.  Speech!  Speech!