His courage and
coolness propitiated some and exasperated others.
A group of very rough fellows pursued him, shouting and yelling, as he
left the school-room where the meeting was held.
"Take care!" said McEwart, hurrying him along. "They are beginning with
stones, and I see no police about."
The little party of visitors made for the coach, protected by some of
the villagers. But in the dusk the stones came flying fast and freely.
Just as Marsham was climbing into his seat he was struck. McEwart saw
him waver, and heard a muttered exclamation.
"You're hurt!" he said, supporting him. "Let the groom drive."
Marsham pushed him away.
"It's nothing." He gathered up the reins, the grooms who had been
holding the horses' heads clambered into their places, a touch of the
whip, and the coach was off, almost at a gallop, pursued by a shower
of missiles.
After a mile at full speed Marsham pulled in the horses, and handed the
reins to the groom. As he did so a low groan escaped him.
"You _are_ hurt!" exclaimed McEwart. "Where did they hit you?"
Marsham shook his head.
"Better not talk," he said, in a whisper, "Drive home.
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