Their blood was up, and it was perhaps well for that official that he
did not wait to be interviewed. As the crowd surged up before the
house, a man's figure was seen dimly flitting across the field behind,
having apparently emerged from the back door. There was a yell "There
goes Iry," and half the mob took after him, but, thanks to the
darkness, the nimble-footed sheriff made good his escape, and his
pursuers presently returned, breathless, but in high good humor over
the novel sport, protesting that they laughed so hard they couldn't
run.
The only other important demonstration by the mob that evening, was
the tearing up of the fence in front of Squire Woodbridge's house and
the construction of an immense bonfire in the street out of the
fragments, the conflagration proceeding to the accompaniment of an
obligato on the horse-fiddles.
So it came to pass that, as sometimes happens in such cases, Squire
Woodbridge's first attempt to get the reins of the runaway team into
his hands, had the effect of startling the horses into a more headlong
gallop than ever.
If the events of the night, superadded to the armed revolt of the week
before, left any doubt in the most sanguine mind that the present
disturbances were no mere local and trifling irritations, but a
general rebellion, the news which was in the village early the
following morning, must have dispelled it.
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