THE MOB.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 4739, 2 September 1893, Page 1

THE MOB.

{New York Snn.) A man leaning against a lamp post on a street corner, sullen and moody and a dangeroua look in his eyeß. If one had but known his thoughts he would have compared him to the dull, rod coal left behind in the hunters' camp fire, to be blown out into the dry graßß by a gust of wind, and to start a conflagration which would aweep over mileß of foreat. "The law! The law! Curse the law!" he growled as he slouched on, but halted a few rods away to greet another of his ilk. " Who says we mußt wait for the law ? " " Let's lynch him !" The second man is the flame starting from the live coal. That flame could be trampled out by a hunter's foot now, but there is no one at hand to realise the danger. I " Law ! Law ! While, the lawyers will juggle with the law, and he will go free ! We are the law in the caae of such wretches aa he ! " The voice of the third man fans the flame, and it spreads out among the dry leaves. A hunter's blanket would cover it, but it is creeping with fearful rapidity. "Away with the law and bring us a rope ! Lynch law is what we want here ! " The flame is darting out a thousand tongues now as it races before the wind — a wave of flame which lengthens like a serpent stretching itself in the noonday sun, and which lifts its crest higher and i higher as it finds richer fuel. Not one man now, but ten, twenty, fifty. They do not scatter to spread the news, but other men come to them. There is a strange magnetism about a crowd— a crowd which whispers and mutters and menaces. It draws out the householder, though he has heard nothing. It draws the vagabond from his bed in a box in the alley, though he has seen nothing. Men come to it through court and alley—from chambers above and cellars beneath. " Move on to the gaol !" There are no shouting and hurrahing, no pushing and hurrying. Therein lies the menace. Men speak as they press on, but their words do not float up to the open chamber windows. No one has been selected to lead, but there is a leader. When he issued his first command, all obeyed without question. A something in his look and tone put him at the head of the mob. Turn to the left— turn to tbe right— straight on for two blocks, and the grim old gaol looms up through the darkness. Half a dozen men detach themselves to knock at the gaoler's door. The footsteps of a great mob at midnight make a sound like thunder afar off in the deep woods. Men do not wake up to turn over and slumber again, but to grow pale and peer from their windows. "The keys and the murderer!" The keys are handed over. If the mob were Bhouting and clamouring, the gaoler might refuse, but it waa a silent mob. Determined men utter no shouts. The half dozen disappear inside the building* The man they want is sleeping. He heara them at the door of his cell, and is wide awake in an instant. He knows why they have come. His lips part to make an appeal, but as he looks into their faces his words are unspoken. They have come for hia life. They utter no word, and the lines

lof their faces are hard set. Two by two they march out past the trembling gaoler and into the Btreet. Thero is a sound from the crowd — not a about or hurrah, but a deep, vindictive chuckle— which reminds you of the wolf as he overtakes his prey and feels the taste of blood. Down the street tour blocks— turn to the right — and here is the tree. The prisoner looks about him as he walks, but does not speak; If there were shouting and hurrahing he might hope. It is a crowd where men whisper or mutter, and he ia awed to despair. There is t little waiting. Aiope i 3 thrown over a limb, the noose passed over his head, and the men fall baok and leave him the pivot of a small circle. No one speaks to him, but he realises what the action means. Standing there with his arms tied behind him and his chin on his breast, he is like a statue dimly seen through the midnight gloom. Perhaps he utters a prayer, though the blood of his victim still stains his clothing. There is silence all around him— silence so deep that one passing the outskirts of the crowd a few feet away would not suspect its presence. The silence is broken by the footsteps of marching men. It is a platoon of police coming up to uphold the niajesly of the law by rescuing the prisoner. Two hundred men fall out of the mob and form across the path. There are no shouts of defiance, no weapons drawn. They Biinply stand like a stone wall. The gray-haired uiau in charge of the police has wisdom. It is a mob bent on one single act. It is determined, but not angry. Arouse its passions, and who can Eay where riot and lawlessness will end ? An arm is raised, and the murderer is lifted off the ground. Some one murmurs his applause, but he is silenced. Three or four revolvers crack, and the dangling form suddenly straightens out. For five minutea no one moves. Then the crowd begins to melt away, and lo ! after a minute only the dead is left. It -wa3 like the swift and silent dissolving of frost before a morning buu. Meu tiptoad away. No man spoke to another. No one looked into the face of Mb neighbour. When day comes the law will aek who has done thiß thing. There will be none to answer. The law has nob been vindicated, but stronger than law is retribution wheu stern and silent men determine to mete it out.