I plucked my father's sleeve to call his attention to this; but he
and the Mayor were engaged in argument, his Worship maintaining that
the Methodists--and my father that their assailants--were the prime
disturbers of the peace.

"And how, pray," asked my father, "are these poor women to disperse,
if your ruffians won't let 'em?"

"As to that, sir, you shall see," promised the Mayor, and turned to
the town crier. "John Sprott, call silence. Make as much noise
about it as you can, John Sprott. And you, Nandy Daddo, catch hold
of my horse's bridle here."

He rose in his stirrups and, searching again in his tail-pocket, drew
forth a roll of paper.

"Silence!" bawled the crier.

"Louder, if you please, John Sprott: louder, if you can manage it!
And say 'In the name of King George,' John Sprott; and wind up with
'God save the King.' For without 'God save the King' 'tis no riot,
and a man cannot be hanged for it. So be very particular to say
'God save the King,' John Sprott, and put 'em all in the wrong."

John Sprott bawled again, and this time achieved the whole formula.

"That's better, John Sprott. And you--" his Worship turned upon the
Methodists, "you just listen to this, now--"

"_Our sovereign Lord the King--_"