The dismay of the cheated town waxed to hot indignation.
Even Miss Limpenny, issuing from her front door, heard the news, and
returned in a stupor to watch matters from her bedroom window.
She had not missed a morning service for fourteen years.
Then as if by one impulse passion gave way to action. Like an
invading army the townspeople poured in at the gate, trampling the
turf and crushing the flower-beds. They forced the front door
(whence the page fled, to hide in the cellar), pushed into the hall,
swarmed into the drawing-room--upstairs--all over the house.
Only in the bedrooms were there signs of a hasty flight; but they
were enough. The strangers had decamped. There was a pause of
indecision, but for no long time.
"Sunday or no Sunday," screamed the choleric upholsterer, "every
stick of mine will I take off this morning!"
He tucked up his sleeves, and, flinging open the French window of the
drawing-room, caught up an arm-chair, and began to drag it out
towards the lawn.
A cheer followed. The Trojan blood was up.
It was the signal for a general sack. Flinging off his Sunday coat,
each deluded tradesman seized upon his property, or ransacked the
house until he found it. The ironmonger caught up his fire-irons,
the carpenter pulled down his shelves, the grocer dived into the
pantry and emerged with tea and candles.
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