ears," were the opening words of the stirring speech.
The fearful, howling mob had heard them before, but howled with no less enthusiasm. It was a part in which the Vice was at home and which he supported well. He loved being an army, procession, crowd, retainers, jury or alarums-and-excursions-without. In a collective part he was free from self-consciousness and mauvaise honte. But
"Stop that filthy row," were the following words as the incensed monarch found her voice all but drowned by the superabundant howling of the mob. "Be a fearful howling mob without so much noise while I am talking. Some of you mobs have no more sense than rabbits. I'm always telling you about it. Pukka poggles! Howl every time I stop for breath—not all the time.
Cowed by the Queen's flashing eye and biting words, the mob fell silent—feeling that life was hard even while awaiting so much as a catch in the breath of the Queen, that it might dutifully let its most mobby howl.
