, if you can manage it!
And say 'In the name of King George,' John Sprott; and wind up with
'God save the King.' For without 'God save the King' 'tis no riot,
and a man cannot be hanged for it. So be very particular to say
'God save the King,' John Sprott, and put 'em all in the wrong."

John Sprott bawled again, and this time achieved the whole formula.

"That's better, John Sprott. And you--" his Worship turned upon the
Methodists, "you just listen to this, now--"

"_Our sovereign Lord the King--_"

Here, as the Methodists stood before him with folded hands, a lump of
filth flew past the Mayor's ear and bespattered the lamp-post.

"Damme, who did that?" his Worship demanded. "John Sprott, who threw
that muck?"

"I don't know the man's name, your Worship: but he's yonder, there,
in a striped shirt open at the neck, with a little round hat on the
back of his head; and, what's more, I see'd him do it."

"Then take down his description, John Sprott, and write that at the
words 'Our sovereign Lord' he shied a lump of muck."

John Sprott pulled out a note-book and entered the offence.

"And after 'muck,' John Sprott, write 'God save the King.' I don't
know that 'tis necessary, but you'll be on the safe side."
His Worship unfolded the proclamation again, cleared his throat, and
resumed:

"_Our sovereign Lord the King chargeth and commandeth all persons,
being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves and peacefully to
depart to their habitations or to their lawful business, upon the
pains contained in the Act made in the first year of George the First
for preventing--_"

A handful of more or less liquid mud here took him on the nape of the
neck and splashed over the paper which he held in both hands.

"Arrest that man!" he shouted, bouncing about in a fury. At the same
moment my father gripped my elbow as a volley of missiles darkened
the air, and we fell back--all the Company of the Rose--shoulder to
shoulder, to protect the Methodists, as a small but solid phalanx of
men came driving through the crowd with mischief in their faces.

"But wait awhile! wait awhile!" called out Billy Priske, as my
father plucked out his sword. "These be no enemies, master, to us or
the Methodists, but honest sea-fardingers--packet-men all--and, look
you, with roses in their hats!"

"Roses? Faith, and so they have!" cried my father, lowering his
guard. "But what the devil, then, is the meaning of it?"

He was answ