"What happened," he said, "I will tell you as we walk along. No, don't
go up to the farm. He is not a pleasant sight, poor fellow. When I got
up there, Beecham Bones was spouting away to the mob--his long hair
flying about his back--exciting them to resist laws made by brutal
thieving landlords, and all that kind of gibberish; telling them that
they would be supported by a great party in Parliament, &c., &c. The
people, however, took it all good-naturedly enough. They had a beautiful
effigy of your father swinging on a pole, with a placard on his breast,
on which was written, 'The robber of the widow and the orphan,' and
they were singing Welsh songs. Only I saw Jones, who was more than half
drunk, cursing and swearing in Welsh and English. When the auctioneer
began to sell, Jones went into the house and Bones went with him.
After enough had been sold to pay the debt, and while the mob was still
laughing and shouting, suddenly the back door of the house opened and
out rushed Jones, now quite drunk, a gun in his hand and Bones hanging
on to his coat-tails. I was talking to the auctioneer at the moment,
and my belief is that the brute thought that I was Johnson.
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