I was not the only guest at the major's table.
My earliest introducer, the editor of the
Chillicothe Argus, was also there, as well as the
Hon. Sampson Petty, one of the State
representatives, and a family newly returned from a
residence in Europe, and whose conversation
turned wholly on the titled persons to whom
"Our Minister" had introduced them. The
ample meal was not half over, before a distant
sound, heard above the clatter of wheels and the
tramp of hoofs in the street, struck on my ear.
Nearer and nearer it came, gathering in strength
and distinctness, swelling from a sullen hum
into a dull roar, and mingled with the tread of
many feet, fast approaching. The major heard
it too, and laid down his knife and fork to
listen.

"There must be a demonstration," said he,
thoughtfully; "and yet it's not election time,
neither."

At that moment the door opened, and a
ragged Irish boy, who was retained to black
shoes and run errands at the hotel where I
lived, came bursting into the room.

"Mr. Hill, your honour," panted the breathless
lad, "fly for't afore they surround the
house. They'll show you no marcy, sure as my
name's Mike Sullivan."

Everybody started, and a great clamour of
questions commenced, which Mike answered
merely by wringing his hands and exclaiming,
"Wirra, wirra! 'tis murthered ye'll be, and
I've most kilt myself scampering to warn ye.
They've been to the hotel, and they're comin'
here fast, and tare an' ages, if they cotch ye,
there'll be bitter work done, and you always
spoke civil to Mike, so——"

But before Mike could finish his speech, and
before I could even guess what had occurred, a
tumultuous body of men, armed with guns,
axes, crowbars, and other weapons, poured into
the open space in front of the house, and
advanced with loud shouts and excited
gestures. At their head was old Daniel Wormald,
flourishing his rifle high above his head, with
his hard features swollen and distorted by fury.

"Some mischief has happened! The citizens
have got their backs up, wild-cat fashion," said
my host, as he threw open the window and boldly
demanded the cause of disturbance. There was
a confused outcry.

"That's Pook—hurrah for Pook!" cried one
man, while another bawled out the threatening
words, "Pook be scalped! He introduced the
tarnation Britisher to us. Mebbe he's to git a
slice of the profits!"

"The Britisher! Give him up! Pitch him
out! Or we'll tatter the house like a riddled
pumpkin-rind!" shouted a score of others. I
sprang to the window.

"Gentlemen——" I began. But my voice was
drowned by the dreadful yells that greeted my
appearance, and I instinctively recoiled, while
old Wormald snatched an axe from one of the
lumbermen in the crowd, darted forward, and
struck a shower of heavy blows on the polished
mahogany of the door. The Honourable Sampson
Petty was very white and nervous, and I
heard him whispering to the major to "give me
up," but before two minutes the door was driven
in, and the mob, chiefly composed of angry
countrymen, came pouring in. For some moments
my life hung on a thread; I was roughly seized
by many hands; my clothes were torn; I was
struck, hustled, and bandied to and fro;
nothing but the pressure of the throng kept me
on my feet. But my host showed great courage
and good sense, and was so firm and fearless in
his reiterated demands for silence, that a short
lull took place.

The major spoke up, the instant there was
silence, asking "what harm" I had done.

"Robbed us!" responded Wormald, very
grimly, and I felt his knotted fingers tighten as
they twined themselves in my cravat; "robbed
us! But we'll take it out of him another way."

"I have never robbed you; never wronged
you of a shilling," I gasped, half choked.

"Tell that to Judge Lynch!" answered a
rough bargeman, aiming a blow at my bare head
with the heavy crowbar he carried. Major Pook
caught the man's arm, and warmly appealed to
the crowd not to act like wild beasts, but to
bring forward their accusation in a rational way.

"See here, Pook," said old Wormald, pulling
out a roll of crumpled notes, "hyar's what your
smooth-spoke friend hev paid me in, he hev. An'
what he's done to me, he's done to all. Them
fine white-fisted dandies of New York town,
they must cheat hard-working Western men,
must they, and pay for our substance in bogus
notes, not fit to light a pipe?"

"Bogus notes! Forged notes! Do you mean
to say those notes are forged?" cried I; and I felt
tlie blood rush to my face, and my brain reel.

"Yes, and you know it," cried one; while
"Down-east smasher," "British hound," and
other flattering epithets, poured upon me in a
shower, and it was in vain that I protested my
innocence, since even Pook shrank from my side.

My tale was, indeed, improbable. It suited
the angry mob better to believe me an accomplice
of Petter and Co., whose villanous treachery
now glared upon me, rather than to credit my
being a dupe and scapegoat. They were all
smarting from recent loss, and from the disgrace
—always keenly felt in the West—of having been
tricked; and the rugged hoosiers and corn-crackers
vied with each other in fierce suggestions
for my punishment.

"Lynch him! Tar and feather him! A ride
on a rail, thirty-nine with a green cowhide, and
a dip in the Ohio!" roared one. "A rope! a
rope! There's a lamp-post handy!" yelled a
second; while Wormald malignantly declared that
he had seen "rowdies burned for less," and that
a halter was only too good for me.

In this crisis, Mrs. Pook saved my life. She
alone seemed to believe in my innocence;
and she pleaded with a vigour that carried all
before it. No other interference could have
saved me; but Americans of the roughest sort
have a deference for "a lady;" and Mrs.
Pook was especially popular with the mob, to