The offending whip lay on the road and the coachman's huge tricorne was being rescued and appropriated by a ragged youth, to the whoops of amusement of his fellows. Several hags roared their approval in shrill voices, while a couple of drabs taunted the woman in the coach.

Drinkwater took in the situation at a glance. A momentary sympathy for the man who had been whipped faded in his angry reaction to disorder. The noise of riot was anathema to him. As a naval officer his senses were finely tuned to any hint of it. London had been wearing him down all day. This final scene only triggered a supressed reaction in him.

Still in full dress he threw back his cloak and drew his hanger. His teeth were set and he felt a sudden savage joy as he shoved his heel into the buttocks of the nearer assailant. A cry of mixed anger and encouragement went up from the mob. The man fell beneath the pawing hooves and rolled away, roaring abuse. The other two men paused panting, their staves ready to rebuff their attacker. Drinkwater stepped astride the coachman, who moaned distressingly, and brought his sword point up to the throat of the man with the whipped face. With his left hand he felt in his pocket.

'Come now,' Drinkwater snapped, 'you've had your sport. Let the lady proceed.'

The man raised his stave as though about to strike. Drinkwater dropped the coin onto the back of the coachman. The glint of the half-crown caught the man's eye and he bent to pick it up, but Drinkwater's sword point caught the back of his neck.

'You will let the fellow go, eh? And set him upon his box if you please…' He could feel the man's indignation. 'I'm busy manning a King's ship, cully. Do you take the money and set the fellow up again.' Drinkwater sensed the man acquiesce, stepped back and put up his sword. Threat of the press worked better than the silver, but Drinkwater did not begrudge the money, disliking the arrogant use of corporal punishment for such trivialities.