Behind Stranleigh appeared a police officer, who was greeted with a roar of defiance.
"You must come with me," the officer shouted in his ear. "You can't get in a word to-night. They're going to rush the platform presently, and then we may have difficulty in saving you. Come along."
"Let them rush," replied Stranleigh. "If they won't listen, this is no country of free speech."
"Come along," insisted the officer. "There is no time for argument."
"Do you arrest me?"
"Certainly not."
"Then get off this platform. It belongs to me to-night."
The policeman disappeared, then, with an overwhelming tornado of sound, the mob surged toward the stage, rather impeded by its own compactness. The first to reach the front was a stalwart, bullet-headed, thick-necked ruffian, with hair as closely cropped as that of a convict. Placing two enormous hands on the edge of the platform he sprang up in front of Stranleigh, but before his equilibrium was complete, Stranleigh planted a well-directed blow square between the eyes, and the rioter, flinging up his hands, fell backwards with a crash on his followers.
