It was a market-day, and the country-people were all assembled with
their baskets of poultry, eggs, and such things; the postilion had no
sooner lashed the man who would have taken hold of his horse, but a
great cabbage came whirling like a bombshell into the carriage, at which
my lord laughed more, for it knocked my lady's fan out of her hand, and
plumped into Father Holt's stomach. Then came a shower of carrots and
potatoes.

"For Heaven's sake be still!" says Mr. Holt; "we are not ten paces from
the 'Bell' archway, where they can shut the gates on us, and keep out
this canaille."

The little page was outside the coach on the step, and a fellow in the
crowd aimed a potato at him, and hit him in the eye, at which the poor
little wretch set up a shout; the man laughed, a great big saddler's
apprentice of the town. "Ah! you d--- little yelling Popish bastard,"
he said, and stooped to pick up another; the crowd had gathered quite
between the horses and the inn door by this time, and the coach was
brought to a dead stand-still. My lord jumped as briskly as a boy out of
the door on his side of the coach, squeezing little Harry behind it; had
hold of the potato-thrower's collar in an instant, and the next moment
the brute's heels were in the air, and he fell on the stones with a
thump.

"You hulking coward!" says he; "you pack of screaming blackguards! how
dare you attack children, and insult women? Fling another shot at that
carriage, you sneaking pigskin cobbler, and by the Lord I'll send my
rapier through you!"

Some of the mob cried, "Huzzah, my lord!" for they knew him, and