There was a rush forward, the horn of the car sounded, everything swayed violently to the right for perhaps ten yards or so, and there was a report like a pistol-shot.

For a moment every one seemed running away.  A woman, carrying a shawl-wrapped child, blundered into me, and sent me reeling back.  Every one thought of firearms, but, as a matter of fact, something had gone wrong with the motor, what in those old-fashioned contrivances was called a backfire.  A thin puff of bluish smoke hung in the air behind the thing.  The majority of the people scattered back in a disorderly fashion, and left a clear space about the struggle that centered upon the motor-car.

The man or boy who had fallen was lying on the ground with no one near him, a black lump, an extended arm and two sprawling feet.  The motor-car had stopped, and its three occupants were standing up.  Six or seven black figures surrounded the car, and appeared to be holding on to it as if to prevent it from starting again; one—­it was Mitchell, a well-known labor leader—­argued in fierce low tones with Lord Redcar.  I could not hear anything they said, I was not near enough.  Behind me the colliery gates were open, and there was a sense of help coming to the motor-car from that direction.  There was an unoccupied muddy space for fifty yards, perhaps, between car and gate, and then the wheels and head of the pit rose black against the sky.  I was one of a rude semicircle of people that hung as yet indeterminate in action about this dispute.

It was natural, I suppose, that my fingers should close upon the revolver in my pocket.

I advanced with the vaguest intentions in the world, and not so quickly but that several men hurried past me to join the little knot holding up the car.

Lord Redcar, in his big furry overcoat, towered up over the group about him; his gestures were free and threatening, and his voice loud.  He made a fine figure there, I must admit; he was a big, fair, handsome young man with a fine tenor voice and an instinct for gallant effect.  My eyes were drawn to him at first wholly.  He seemed a symbol, a triumphant symbol, of all that the theory of aristocracy claims, of all that filled my soul with resentment.  His chauffeur sat crouched together, peering at the crowd under his lordship’s arm.  But Mitchell showed as a sturdy figure also, and his voice was firm and loud.

“You’ve hurt that lad,” said Mitchell, over and over again.  “You’ll wait here till you see if he’s hurt.”

“I’ll wait here or not as I please,” said Redcar; and to the chauffeur, “Here! get down and look at it!”

“You’d better not get down,” said Mitchell; and the chauffeur stood bent and hesitating on the step.

The man on the back seat stood up, leant forward, and spoke to Lord Redcar, and for the first time my attention was drawn to him.  It was young Verrall!  His handsome face shone clear and fine in the green pallor of the comet.