that he burst through the opening,
followed by all the rest (who felt that the matter was out of
their hands, and must go its own way after the Irishman), and
rolling to the front of the outside platform, rested one hand on
the rail, and waved the other gracefully towards the crowd.

This was the signal for a burst of defiant shouts and hissing.
Donovan stood blandly waving his hand for silence. Drysdale,
running his eye over the mob, turned to the rest and said,
"There's nothing to stop us, not twenty grown men in the whole
lot."

Then one of the men lighting upon the drumsticks, which the usual
man in corduroys had hidden away, began beating the big drum
furiously. One of the unaccountable whims which influence crowds
seized on the mob, and there was almost perfect silence. This
seemed to take Donovan by surprise; the open air was having the
common effect on him; he was getting unsteady on his legs, and
his brains were wondering. "Now's your time, Donovan, my
boy--begin."

"Ah, yes, to be sure, what'll I say? let's see," said Donovan,
putting his head on one side--

"Friends, Romans, countrymen," suggested some wag.

"To be sure," cried Donovan; "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend
me your ears."

"Bravo Pat, well begun; pull their ears well when you've got
'em."

"Bad luck to it! where was I? you divels--I mean ladies and
gentlemen of Oxford city as I was saying, the poets-"

Then the storm of shouting and hissing arose again, and Donovan,
after an ineffectual attempt or two to go on, leaned forward and
shook his fist generally at the mob. Luckily for him, there were
no stones about; but one of the crowd, catching the first missel
at hand, which happened to be a cabbage stalk, sent it with true
aim at the enraged orator. He jerked his head on one side to
avoid it; the motion unsteadied his cap; he threw up his hand,
which, instead of catching the falling cap, as it was meant to
do, sent it spinning among the crowd below. The owner, without a
moment's hesitation, clapped both hands on the bar before him,
and followed his property, vaulting over on the heads of those
nearest the platform, amongst whom he fell, scattering them right
and left.

"Come on, gown, or he'll be murdered," sang out one of Donovan's
friends. Tom was one of the first down the steps; they rushed to
the spot in another moment, and the Irishman rose, plastered with
dirt, but otherwise none the worse for his feat; his cap, covered
with