His excited shout made him cough terribly; none the less he pushed on.

“You’ll come to harm,” said the other.  “Don’t be a fool; get out of this.”

A struggle began between them; but by this time they were so thickly encompassed that Gammon had small chance of forcing his companion away.  Lord Polperro did not resent the tugs at his arm; he took it for genial horseplay, and only shouted louder.

“On we go!  This makes one feel alive, eh?  Splendid idea to come and see this.  Hollo—­o—­o!”

Blackguards in front of him were bellowing a filthy song; his lordship tried to join in the melody.  A girl who was jammed against him shot liquid into his ear out of a squirt, and another of her kind knocked his hat off; he struggled to recover it, but someone was beforehand with him and sent the silky headgear flying skyward, after which it was tossed from hand to hand and then trampled under foot.

“Now you’ll catch your bloomin’ death of cold,” said Gammon.  “Stick on to me and get out of this.”

“I’m all right!  Leave me alone, can’t you!  How often have I a damned chance of enjoying myself?”

It was the first syllable of bad language that Gammon had heard from Polperro’s lips.  Struck with the fact, and all the more conscious of his duty to this high-born madman, he hit on a device for rescuing him from the crowd.

“Look!” he cried suddenly, “there’s Greenacre!”

“Where?” replied the other, all eagerness.

“Just in front; don’t you see him?  This way; come along, or we shall lose him.”

Flecks of dim white had for some minutes been visible above their heads; it was beginning to snow.  Gammon shouldered his way steadily, careful not to come into quarrelsome conflict.  Polperro hung on behind, shouting Greenacre’s name.  This clamour and the loss of his hat drew attention upon him; he was a mark for squirts and missiles, to say nothing of verbal insult.  St. Paul’s struck the first note of twelve, and from all the bestial mob arose a howl and roar.  Polperro happened to press against a drunken woman; she caught him by his disordered hair and tugged at it, yelling into his face.  To release himself he bent forward, pushing the woman away; the result was a violent blow from her fist, after which she raised a shriek as if of pain and terror.  Instantly a man sprang forward to her defence, and he, too, planted his fist between the eyes of the hapless peer.  Gammon saw at once that they were involved in a serious row, the very thing he had been trying to avoid.  He would not desert his friend, and was too plucky to see him ill-used with out reprisals.  The rough’s blows were answered with no less vigour by the man of commerce.

“Hook it!” shouted Gammon to the tottering Polperro.  “Get out of it!”

The clock was still striking; the crowd kept up its brutal blare, aided by shrill instruments of noise.  Only a few people heard Polperro’s shout defying the enemy.