THE MAYOR’S DAUGHTER.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 5011, 20 May 1889, Page 4

THE MAYOR’S DAUGHTER.

LITERATURE

The action was detected by a portion of the mob outside, and a roar of anger and derision greeted the appearance of Mr Buddlecombe, whose form had been recognised for some time by means of the tell-tale shadow on the windowblind as he had undressed himself. Simultaneously with the roar some combustible material was thrown on to a bonfire which had just been ignited, and a lurid glare lit up the scene. Now we all know that ‘ man, proud man, dressed in a little brief authority,’ is overweeningly fond of posing in public j but when merely dressed in a little ! ref garment he is not so proud, and a great deal of this foolish hankering after public display deserts him. To humility therefore, or to modesty, rather than to base fear, let us generously attribute the wondrous agility with which Mr Buddlecombe withdrew from the public gaze. The roar of voices and the flare of the bonfire speedily aroused the entire household, and in a few minutes the family and the servants were assembled in a terrified group in the drawing, room. Mr Buddlecombe, now completely dressed, felt that some vigorous course of action devolved upon him. Summoning up all his fortitude, he opened one of the windows, and, while Mrs Buddlecombe dragged at one coattail and Plorry at the other, he demanded of the mob in a loud tone of voice what their object was. Yells and groans and a shower of burning brands plucked from the bonfire constituted the emphatic rejoinder of the many-headed. A few of the fiery.missiles fell into the room amongst the. women-servants, creating dire confusion in the petticoated ranks, and eliciting a shrill chorus of terrified shrieks. Mr Bundlecombe at once saw the futility of any further attempt to reason with his besiegers, and there was nothing to do but to watch their proceedings and anxiously wait for sue-

cour. . The bonfire now received fresh fuel in the shape of Mr Buddlecombe’s brougham and Florence’s pony-carriag'e, which had been broken up into firewood ; and round the fierce blaze men, mad with drink, danced, and yelled imprecations not only on Mr Buddlecombe, but also on the members of his family. A new attraction, however, soon presented itself, and this was the appearance on the scene of Mr Boddlecornba’s barouche, containing the stuffed effigy of its owner. Amidst drunken laughter and y ells the carriage was dragged and pushed on to the blazing pile. All this time Spigot was going about the house in a frenzy of terror, wringing his hands and imploring everyone he met to seud for the soldiers.

Most fervently did Mr Buddlecombe wish that he could. But there was no one to send, JSo one dared to show his /ace outside. With every moment the prospect loomed blacker. The mob, numbering about a couple of thousand, had, en route to Mr Buddlecombe’s residence, wrecked several public houses, from the cellars of wh'ch they had brought, by means of carts and other conveyances, unceremoniously ‘ requisitioned ’ lor the purpose, enough spirits, in barrels and hogsheads, to steal away what little sense and humanity a week’s idle debauch and pernicious advice had left in their heads and hearts. Many were mad drunk ; hundreds were rapidly descending to the same brutal level ; and probably not one was sober.

A temporary diversion wasoccasioned by ihe appearance on the scene of about fifteen policemen; but they were iu a ridiculous minority, and were soon forced to beat a hasty retreat, carrying off several of their number brutally, if not fatally, injured. As yet no attempt to break info the bouse bad been made, but suddenly a vigorous thumping at a back-door against which Mr Spigot had just posted himself, with the ulterior view of slipping out through it as soon as the rioters broke in at the front, chilled the women with terror and sent Spigot bounding up the staircase to his own apartment, where, as far as he was able, precluded the possibility of being murdered in his own bed by taking up a position under if. ‘ Who’s there ? ’ demanded Mr Buddlecombe, cautiously peering from a window on a landing immediately above the door, while the rest of the household, whom the common danger had made inordinately gregarious in their movements, crowded close behind him.

The reply was almost as cheering as the cry of c Land in sight I ’ is to the crew and passengers of a leaking ship. ‘ls that you, Buddie ? Let me in. It’s Bolitho—Joe Bolilho ! ’

Amidst a chorus of thanksgiving, and as quickly as eager hands could work, the door was unbarred, and Mr Bolitho admitted.

‘Buddie, old friend,’ exclaimed the hearty old gentleman, ‘ we must stick to each other in the hour of danger.

for we :

4 Were boys together,’ said Mr Buddlecombe, almost choked with emotion, as he seized the proffered hand in both bis, and wrung it heartily. * Bless you, Joe ! bless you, my dear old friend ! ’

‘ 0, Mr Bolitho ! ’ gasped Mrs Buddlecombe. ‘ 0, Mr Bolitho I ’ sobbed Florence. ‘O, Mr Bolitho ! ’ screamed the maid-servants.

‘ Ah, my darlings, don’t be frightened,’ said the old fellow, as he put one arm round Mrs Buddiecombe, and another round Florence, while the maids hung about him half-laughing, halfcrying ; ‘ don’t be frightened. I’ve sent a mounted messenger to the barracks for assistance, and we’ll soon have the red-coats here.’ 4 Fhank God ! ’ said Mr Buddlecombe.

In the midst of her terror Mrs Buddiecombe could not repress a significant glance at her husband. A change

had indeed come o’er the spirit of his dream.

* Come along,’ said Mr Bolitho, * let me speak to the drunken rabble. It makes one’s heart bleed to think that they are Englishmen.’ In spite ol entreaties not to expose himself, Mr Bolitho insisted on stepping out on to a balcony formed by the portico over the Iront door, a conspicuous and commanding position from which to address the crowd.

He was at once recognised, and greeted with many cries, amongst which were : * It’s old Joe ! ’ —‘ Give old Joe Bolitho a hearing, lads ! ’ But this last advice was by no means in accord with the general temper of the savage heard, and a shower of missiles, one of which knocked bis hat off, whizzed about the gallant and stalwart old fellow. Pluckily he held his ground with as little sign of anger as there was of fear on his brave benevolent old face, as he stood bare-headed before them, his white hair conspicuously shining in the fierce light of the bonfire. He would wait, he thought, until these ebullitions should subside, as they would be sure to do in a moment or two. No men, Englishmen least of all, could go on for more than a couple of unthinking moments pegging away, a thousand against one. Little was old Bolitho, in his own goodness of heart, able to fathom the brutality of a mob, no matter whether it be composed of Englishmen or South Sea Islanders. The longer he waited the more the rioters howled and hurled their missiles at him. A dull thud, a spurt of blood, and down went the white head.

Stunned and bleeding from the temple, old Bolitho was dragged in through the window, amidst the screams and sobs of the women.

[To he Continued .)