Mr. Turnbull spoke for two hours, and then the debate was adjourned till the Monday. The adjournment was moved by an independent member, who, as was known, would support the Government, and at once received Mr. Turnbull’s assent. There was no great hurry with the bill, and it was felt that it would be well to let the ferment subside. Enough had been done for glory when Mr. Mildmay moved the second reading, and quite enough in the way of debate—with such an audience almost within hearing—when Mr. Turnbull’s speech had been made. Then the House emptied itself at once. The elderly, cautious members made their exit through the peers’ door. The younger men got out into the crowd through Westminster Hall, and were pushed about among the roughs for an hour or so. Phineas, who made his way through the hall with Laurence Fitzgibbon, found Mr. Turnbull’s carriage waiting at the entrance with a dozen policemen round it.
“I hope he won’t get home to dinner before midnight,” said Phineas.
“He understands all about it,” said Laurence. “He had a good meal at three, before he left home, and you’d find sandwiches and sherry in plenty if you were to search his carriage. He knows how to remedy the costs of mob popularity.”
At that time poor Bunce was being hustled about in the crowd in the vicinity of Mr. Turnbull’s carriage. Phineas and Fitzgibbon made their way out, and by degrees worked a passage for themselves into Parliament Street. Mr. Turnbull had been somewhat behind them in coming down the hall, and had not been without a sense of enjoyment in the ovation which was being given to him. There can be no doubt that he was wrong in what he was doing. That affair of the carriage was altogether wrong, and did Mr. Turnbull much harm for many a day afterwards. When he got outside the door, where were the twelve policemen guarding his carriage, a great number of his admirers endeavoured to shake hands with him. Among them was the devoted Bunce. But the policemen seemed to think that Mr. Turnbull was to be guarded, even from the affection of his friends, and were as careful that he should be ushered into his carriage untouched, as though he had been the favourite object of political aversion for the moment. Mr. Turnbull himself, when he began to perceive that men were crowding close upon the gates, and to hear the noise, and to feel, as it were, the breath of the mob, stepped on quickly into his carriage. He said a word or two in a loud voice. “Thank you, my friends. I trust you may obtain all your just demands.” But he did not pause to speak. Indeed, he could hardly have done so, as the policemen were manifestly in a hurry. The carriage was got away at a snail’s pace;—but there remained in the spot where the carriage had stood the makings of a very pretty street row.
Bunce had striven hard to shake hands with his hero—Bunce and some other reformers as ardent and as decent as himself. The police were very determinate that there should be no such interruption to their programme for getting Mr. Turnbull off the scene. Mr. Bunce, who had his own ideas as to his right to shake hands with any gentleman at Westminster Hall who might choose to shake hands with him, became uneasy under the impediments that were placed in his way, and expressed himself warmly as to his civil rights. Now a London policeman in a political row is, I believe, the most forbearing of men. So long as he meets with no special political opposition, ordinary ill-usage does not even put him out of temper. He is paid for rough work among roughs, and takes his rubs gallantly. But he feels himself to be an instrument for the moment of despotic power as opposed to civil rights, and he won’t stand what he calls “jaw.” Trip up a policeman in such a scramble, and he will take it in good spirit; but mention the words “Habeas Corpus,” and he’ll lock you up if he can. As a rule, his instincts are right; for the man who talks about “Habeas Corpus” in a political crowd will generally do more harm than can be effected by the tripping up of any constable. But these instincts may be the means of individual injustice. I think they were so when Mr. Bunce was arrested and kept a fast prisoner. His wife had shown her knowledge of his character when she declared that he’d be “took” if anyone was “took.”
Bunce was taken into custody with some three or four others like himself—decent men, who meant no harm, but who thought that as men they were bound to show their political opinions, perhaps at the expense of a little martyrdom—and was carried into a temporary stronghold, which had been provided for the necessities of the police, under the clock-tower.
“Keep me at your peril!” said Bunce, indignantly.
“We means it,” said the sergeant who had him in custody.
“I’ve done no ha’porth to break the law,” said Bunce.
“You was breaking the law when you was upsetting my men, as I saw you,” said the sergeant.
“I’ve upset nobody,” said Bunce.
“Very well,” rejoined the sergeant; “you can say it all before the magistrate, tomorrow.”
“And am I to be locked up all night?” said Bunce.
“I’m afraid you will,” replied the sergeant.
Bunce, who was not by nature a
