I turned to the left and fifty paces brought me into the main street. A
gun and a train of wagons were rumbling over the bridge, convoyed by a
handful of dragoons and a riff-raff of noisy lads and lasses. Late and
cold as it was, the main street was thronged as on a fair day at noon.
Most of the shops, especially those that dealt in provisions, were open
and full of vociferous customers, while every alehouse was a pandemonium.
The street was choked with townspeople and soldiery; lanterns flickered
and torches flamed; oath and jest, bravado and buffoonery, filled the air.

I pushed my way to the market-place. Here about a dozen guns were parked,
and at least a hundred horses tethered. At each corner a huge fire cracked
and roared. The town hall was a blaze of light, and I heard from passersby
that the mayor and council had been in session since noon. The current
rumour was that the Stuart, with fifty thousand Highlanders, savages who
disembowelled women for sport and roasted children for food, had sacked
Manchester and was now marching south, with hell in his heart and
desolation in his train. If one-hundredth of it were true, the worthy
mayor had his work cut out, for the town was so ill-found that it would
have fallen to a bombardment of turnips.

I took my stand on the town-hall steps to scan the scene and collect my
thoughts. And here I had the best of luck, for who should come clanking
down the steps but Jack Dobson. I had no need to envy him now, having
better work on hand than his, but even if the mood of the midday had been
prevailing, it would have disappeared before his hearty greeting.

"Noll, by gad, Noll," he cried, wringing my hand joyously. "I am glad to
see you, bully-boy; I thought you were sulking in your tent like--like,
you know his name, the fellow old Bloggs was always yarning about."