Guest stood frowning by our side.
"This is what comes," he said, "of making London the asylum for all the
foreign scum of the earth. How goes it, Courage?"
"Staunton is still writing, and the machinery is untouched."
"For how long, I wonder," he muttered. "The police are going over like
ninepins."
I looked below longingly, for my blood was up. It was no ordinary mob
this. They were beginning to fire in volleys now, and leaders were
springing up. As far as we could see there was a panorama of white faces.
It was easy to understand what had happened. We had been followed, and
our purpose guessed. Tomorrow's edition of the _Daily Oracle_ was never
meant to appear!
"The place will be at their mercy in another few minutes," Guest said
gloomily. "Twenty-four hours ago who would have dared to predict a riot
like this, in London of all places? Not all the police in Scotland Yard
would be of any avail against this mob."
"They may stop the paper," I said; "but Staunton's word--and these
events--should go for something with Polloch.
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