The MOB is a mixed crowd of
revellers of both sexes, medical students, clerks, shop men and
girls, and a Boy Scout or two. Many have exchanged hats--Some
wear masks, or false noses, some carry feathers or tin whistles.
Some, with bamboos and Chinese lanterns, swing them up outside
on the terrace. The medley of noises is very great. Such
ringleaders as exist in the confusion are a GROUP OF STUDENTS,
the chief of whom, conspicuous because unadorned, is an
athletic, hatless young man with a projecting underjaw, and
heavy coal-black moustache, who seems with the swing of his huge
arms and shoulders to sway the currents of motion. When the
first surge of noise and movement subsides, he calls out: "To
him, boys! Chair the hero!" THE STUDENTS rush at the impassive
MORE, swing him roughly on to their shoulders and bear him round
the room. When they have twice circled the table to the music
of their confused singing, groans and whistling, THE CHIEF OF
THE STUDENTS calls out: "Put him down!" Obediently they set him
down on the table which has been forced into the bay window, and
stand gaping up at him.
CHIEF STUDENT. Speech! Speech!
[The noise ebbs, and MORE looks round him.]
CHIEF STUDENT. Now then, you, sir.
MORE. [In a quiet voice] Very well. You are here by the law that
governs the action of all mobs--the law of Force. By that law, you
can do what you like to this body of mine.
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