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Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870

"Barnaby Rudge: a tale of the Riots of 'eighty"

Once, it dimly occurred
to him that there was a kind of door to the house, which had a lock and
bolts; and at the same time some shadowy ideas of shutters to the lower
windows, flitted through his brain. But he stood stock still, looking
down the road in the direction in which the noise was rapidly advancing,
and did not so much as take his hands out of his pockets.
He had not to wait long. A dark mass, looming through a cloud of dust,
soon became visible; the mob quickened their pace; shouting and whooping
like savages, they came rushing on pell mell; and in a few seconds he
was bandied from hand to hand, in the heart of a crowd of men.
'Halloa!' cried a voice he knew, as the man who spoke came cleaving
through the throng. 'Where is he? Give him to me. Don't hurt him. How
now, old Jack! Ha ha ha!'
Mr Willet looked at him, and saw it was Hugh; but he said nothing, and
thought nothing.
'These lads are thirsty and must drink!' cried Hugh, thrusting him back
towards the house. 'Bustle, Jack, bustle. Show us the best--the very
best--the over-proof that you keep for your own drinking, Jack!'
John faintly articulated the words, 'Who's to pay?'
'He says "Who's to pay?"' cried Hugh, with a roar of laughter which was
loudly echoed by the crowd.


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