At times Morot leant well out of the window and listened. Then he stood
back again and contemplated the crowd.

Each orator was illuminated by a naphtha "flare," which, being held in
unsteady hands, flickered and wavered, casting strange gleams of light
over the evil faces upturned towards it. At times one speaker would
succeed in raising a laugh or extracting a groan, and when he did so
those listening to his rivals turned and surged towards him. There was
plenty of movement. It was what the newspapers call an animated
scene--or a disgraceful scene--according to their political bias.

The Citizen Morot could not hear the jokes nor distinguish the cause of
the groaning. But he did not seem to mind much. The speeches were not of
the description to be given in full in the morning papers. There were,
fortunately, no reporters present. It was the frank eloquence of the
slaughter-house--the unclad humour of the market.

Suddenly one of the women--she who was posted at the southern end of the
street--raised both her arms, and the Citizen leant far out of the
window. He was very eager, and his hawk-like eyes blinked perpetually.
His hand was raised to his mouth, and the lights of the orators gleamed
on something that he held in his fingers--something that looked like
silver.

The woman held her two arms straight up into the air for some moments,
then she suddenly crossed them twice, turning at the same moment and
scrambling over the barricade. A long shrill whistle rang out over the
heads of the mob, and its effect was almost instantaneous. The "flares"
disappeared like magic. Dark figures swarmed up the lamp-posts and