In another moment the incident was closed. The courtier of Charles II. had
rushed up; the elephant was pulled and hustled and kicked; for him swiftly
the vision of power and glory and vengeance was over, and once again he
was the tied and governed prisoner of modern civilisation. The top-hat
lay, a battered and hapless remnant, beneath the feet of the now advancing
procession.

Once the crowd realised that the danger was over a roar of laughter went
up to heaven. There were shouts and cries. The Archdeacon tried to smile.
He heard in dim confusion the cheery laugh of Samuel Hogg, he caught the
comment of Croppet and the rest.

With only one thought that he must hide himself, indignation, humiliation,
amazement that such a thing could be in his heart, he backed, turned,
almost ran, finding at last sudden refuge in Bennett's book-shop. How
wonderful was the dark rich security of that enclosure! The shop was
always in a half-dusk and the gas burnt in its dim globes during most of
the day. All the richer and handsomer gleamed the rows of volumes, the
morocco and the leather and the cloth. Old Mr. Bennett himself, the son of
the famous man who had known Scott and Byron, was now a prodigious age (in
the town his nickname was Methusalem), but he still liked to sit in the
shop in a high chair, his white beard in bright contrast with the chaste
selection of the newest works arranged in front of him. He might himself
have been the Spirit of Select Literature summoned out of the vasty deep
by the Cultured Spirits of Polchester.

Into this splendid temple of letters the Archdeacon came, halted,
breathless, bewildered, tumbled. He saw at first only dimly. He was aware
that old Mr. Bennett, with an exclamation of surprise, rose in his chair.
Then he perceived that two others were in the shop; finally, that these