sun never rode in the heavens.  It blazed down with a force that was almost unbearable, scorching and withering all within its radius.  Lionel looked up at it; it seemed to blister his face and dazzle his eyes; and his resolution wavered as he thought of the walk before him.  “I have a great mind not to go,” said he mentally.  “They can set up their targets without me.  I shall be half dead by the time I get there.”  Nevertheless, in the indecision, he still walked on.  He thought he’d see how affairs looked when he came to the green fields.  Green! brown, rather.

But Lionel found other affairs to look at before he reached the fields.  On turning a sharp angle of Clay Lane, he was surprised to see a crowd collected, stretching from one side of it to the other.  Not a peaceable crowd evidently, although it was composed for the most part of the gentler sex; but a crowd of threatening arms and inflamed faces, and swaying white caps and noisy tongues.  The female population of Clay Lane had collected there.

Smash! went the breaking of glass in Lionel’s ears as he came in view; smash! went another crash.  Were Peckaby’s shop windows suffering?  A misgiving that it must be so, crossed the mind of Lionel, and he made few steps to the scene of warfare.

Sure enough it was nothing less.  Three great holes were staring in so many panes, the splinters of glass lying inside the shop-window, amidst butter and flour, and other suchlike articles.  The flour looked brown, and the butter was running away in an oily stream; but that was no reason why a shower of broken glass should be added to improve their excellences.  Mr. Peckaby, with white gills and hair raised up on end, stood, the picture of fear, gazing at the damage, but too much afraid to start out and prevent it.  Those big men are sometimes physical cowards.  Another pane smashed! the weapon used being a hard piece of flint coal, which just escaped short of Mr. Peckaby’s head, and Lionel thought it time to interfere.  He pushed into the midst of them.

They drew aside when they saw who it was.  In their hot passions—­hot and angry then—­perhaps no one, friend or enemy, would have stood a chance of being deferred to but Lionel Verner.  They had so long looked upon him as the future lord of Verner’s Pride that they forgot to look upon him as anything less now.  And they all liked Lionel.  His appearance was as oil poured upon troubled waters.

“What is the meaning of this?  What is the matter?” demanded Lionel.

“Oh, sir, why don’t you interfere to protect us, now things is come to this pass?  You be a Verner!” was the prayer of remonstrance from all sides that met his words.

“Give me an explanation,” reiterated Lionel.  “What is the grievance?”