remarks of the rabble. This annoyed the rabble. They began to be more personal.
“You in the second-hand lobster-tin,” shouted one—he meant Friesshardt, whose suit of armour, though no longer new, hardly deserved this description—“who's your hatter?”
“Can’t yer see,” shouted a friend, when Friesshardt made no reply, “the pore thing ain’t alive? 'E’s stuffed!”
Roars of laughter greeted this sally. Friesshardt, in spite of the fact that he enjoyed a joke, turned pink.
“’E’s blushing!” shrieked a voice.
Friesshardt turned purple.
Then things got still more exciting.
“’Ere,” said a rough voice in the crowd impatiently, “wot’s the good of torkin’ to ’em? Gimme that ’ere egg, missus!
And in another instant an egg flew across the meadow, and burst over Leuthold’s shoulder.
