of no dubiety. It is unlawful assembly where
three or more persons meet together to carry out some private
enterprise in circumstances calculated to excite alarm. Mark those
words, Sir John--" some private enterprise. "When the enterprise is
not private but meant to redress a public grievance, or to reform
religion, the offence becomes high treason."

"Does the law indeed say so?"

"It does, Sir John. The law, let me tell you, is very fierce against
any reforming of religion. Nay more, Sir John, under the first of
King George the First, statute two--I forget what chapter--by the Act
commonly called the Riot Act, it is enacted that if a dozen or more
go about reforming of religion or otherwise upsetting the public
peace and refuse to go about their business within the space of one
hour after I tell 'em to, the same becomes felony without benefit of
clergy."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Billy Priske, pulling off his hat and eyeing
the rose in its band.

"And further," his Worship continued, "any man wearing the badge or
ensign of the rioters shall himself be considered a rioter without
benefit of clergy."

All this while the crowd had been pressing closer and closer upon us,
under compulsion (as it seemed) of reinforcements from the waterside,
the purlieus of the Market Strand being, by now, so crowded that men
and women were crying out for room. At this moment, glancing across
the square, I was puzzled to see a woman leaning forth from a
first-floor window and dropping handfuls of artificial flowers upon
the heads of the throng. While I watched, she retired--her hands
being empty--came back with a band-box, and scattered its contents
broadcast, pausing to blow a kiss towards the Mayor.

I plucked my father's sleeve to call his attention to this; but he
and the Mayor were engaged in argument, his Worship maintaining that
the Methodists--and my father that their assailants--were the prime
disturbers of the peace.

"And how, pray," asked my father, "are these poor women to disperse,
if your ruffians won't let 'em?"

"As to that, sir, you shall see," promised the Mayor, and turned to
the town crier. "John Sprott, call silence. Make as much noise
about it as you can, John Sprott. And you, Nandy Daddo, catch hold
of my horse's bridle here."

He rose in his stirrups and, searching again in his tail-pocket, drew
forth a roll of paper.

"Silence!" bawled the crier.

"Louder, if you please, John Sprott: louder