for Brighton! Here's the boy wot sleeps in Cavendish
Street! Huzzah, the old 'un for ever! There's an elegant man for a
small tea-party! Who wants a fat chap to send to their friends this
Christmas?" The noise they made was quite tremendious, and the snow in
many places being up to their middles, we made werry slow progress, but
still they would keep me in the chair, and before we got to the end of
the street the crowd had increased to some hundreds. Here they began
snow-balling, and my hat and wig soon went flying, and then there was a
fresh holloa. "Here's Mr. Wigney, the member for Brighton," they cried
out; "I say, old boy, are you for the ballot? You must call on the King
this morning; he wants to give you a Christmas-box." Just then one of
the front bearers tumbled, and down we all rolled into a drift, just
opposite Daly's backey shop. There were about twenty of us in together,
but being pretty near the top, I was soon on my legs, and seeing
an opening, I bolted right forward--sent three or four fellows
flying--dashed down the passage behind Saxby's wine vaults, across the
Steyne, floundering into the drifts, followed by the mob, shouting and
pelting me all the way. This double made some of the beggars over-shoot
the mark, and run past the statute of George the Fourth, but, seeing
their mistake, or hearing the other portion of the pack running in the
contrary direction, they speedily joined heads and tails, and gave me a
devil of a burst up the narrow lane by the Wite 'Orse 'Otel. Fortunately
Jonathan Boxall's door was open, and Jonathan himself in the passage
bar, washing some decanters. "Look sharp, Jonathan!" said I, dashing
past him as wite as a miller, "look sharp! come out of that, and
be after clapping your great carcase against the door to keep the
Philistines out, or they'll be the death of us both." Quick as thought
the door was closed and bolted before ever the leaders had got up, but,
finding this the case, the mob halted and proceeded to make a deuce of a
kick-up before the house, bellowing and shouting like mad fellows, and
threatening to pull it down if I did not show. Jonathan got narvous,
and begged and intreated me to address them. I recommended him to do it
himself, but he said he was quite unaccustomed to public speaking, and
he would stand two glasses of "cold without" if I would. "Hot with,"
said I, "and I'll do it." "Done," said he, and he knocked the snow off
my coat, pulled my wig straight,