Our attitude indeed, and the sight of drawn swords (to oppose which they had no weapons but short cudgels), appeared to take them aback for the moment.  The press, however, closing on us, as we backed to cover the Mayor’s retreat, offered less and less occasion for sword play; and, the seamen still advancing and outnumbering us by about three to one, the whole affair began to wear an ugly look.

At this juncture relief came to us in the strangest fashion.  I had clean forgotten the little Methodist man in black; whom, to be sure, I had no occasion to remember but for the quiet resolution of his carriage as he had stood with the burst egg trickling over his face.  But now, to the surprise of us all, he sprang forward upon the second mace-bearer, snatched the mace from his hand and laid about him in a sudden frenzy; at the first blow, delivered at unawares, catching the ringleader on the crown and felling him like an ox.  For a second, perhaps, he stared, amazed at his own prowess, and with that the lust of battle seized him.

He rained blows; yet with cunning, running forth and back into our ranks as each was delivered; and between the blows he capered, uttering shrill inarticulate cries.  This diversion indeed saved us.  For the rabble, pressing up to see the fun, left a space more or less clear on the far side of the Market Strand, and for this space we stampeded, dragging the Mayor along with us.

The next thing I remember was fighting side by side with Nat before a door beneath the window where I had seen the woman throwing down her handfuls of artificial flowers.  The lower windows were barred, but the door stood open; and we fought to defend it whilst my father lifted the Mayor of Falmouth by his coat-collar and the seat of his breeches and flung him inside.  Then we too backed and, ducking indoors under the arms of the little man in black—­who stood on the step swinging the borough mace as though to scythe off the head of any one who approached within five feet of it—­seized him by the coat-tails, dragged him inside and, slamming to the door (which shut with two flaps), locked and bolted it and leant against it with all our weight.

Yet a common house-door is but a flimsy barricade against a mob, especially if that mob be led by five-and-twenty stout-bodied seaman.  We had shut it merely to gain time, and when the cudgels outside began to play tattoo upon its upper panels I looked for no more than a minute’s respite at the best.

It puzzled me therefore when—­and immediately upon two ugly blows that had well-nigh shaken the lock from its fastenings—­the shouting suddenly subsided into a confused hubbub of voices, followed by a clang and rattle of arms upon the cobblestones.  This last sound appeared to hush the others into silence.  I stood listening, with my hip pressed against the lock to hold it firm against the next concussion.  None came:  but presently some one rapped with his knuckles on the upper panel and a voice, authoritative but civil enough, challenged us in the name of King George to open.