Making the most of
this opportunity, we hurry forward toward the yamen, which, I afterward
learn, is still two or three hundred yards distant. Ere fifty yards are
covered the mob come pouring through the gate, yelling like demons and
picking up stones as they hurry after us. "A horse, a horse, my kingdom
for a horse." or, what would suit me equally as well, a short piece of
smooth road in lieu of break-neck cobble-stones.
Again are we overtaken and bombarded vigorously; ignorant of the distance
to the yamen, I again begin looking about for some place in which to
retreat for defensive purposes, unwilling to abandon the bicycle to
destruction and seek doubtful safety in flight. At this juncture a brick
strikes the unfortunate rear-guard on the arm, injuring that member
severely, and quickening the already badly frightened yameni-runners to
the urgent necessity of bringing matters to an ending somehow.
Pointing forward, they persist in dragging me into a run. Thus far I have
been very careful to preserve outward composure, feeling sure that any
demonstration of weakness on my part would surely operate to my
disadvantage. The runners' appealing cries of "Yameni! yameni!" however,
prove that we are almost there, and for fifty or seventy-five yards we
scurry along before the vengeful storm of stones and pursuing mob.
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