The Amateur Gentleman

"Ha!" said Barnabas, buttoning up his coat.

"Now, are ye ready, sir?"

"Quite!"

"Then keep close be'ind me--go!" With the word Mr. Shrig began to run,

always keeping close beside the wall; indeed he ran so fast and was

so very nimble that Barnabas had some ado to keep up with him. They

had gone but a little distance when five rough looking fellows

started into view further up the alley, completely blocking their

advance, and by the clatter of feet behind, Barnabas knew that their

retreat was cut off, and instinctively he set his teeth, and gripped

his cane more firmly. But on ran Mr. Shrig, keeping close beside the

wall, head low, shoulders back, elbows well in, for all the world as

if he intended to hurl himself upon his assailants in some desperate

hope of breaking through them; but all at once, like a rabbit into

his burrow, he turned short off in mid career, and vanished down a

dark and very narrow entry or passage, and, as Barnabas followed, he

heard, above the vicious thud of footsteps, hoarse cries of anger

and disappointment. Half-way down the passage Mr. Shrig halted

abruptly and turned, as the first of their pursuers appeared.

"This'll do!" he panted, swinging the nobbly stick in his hand,

"can't come on more nor two at vunce. Be ready vith your stick--at

their eyes--poke at 'em--no 'itting--" the rest was drowned in the

echoing rush of heavy feet and the boom of hoarse voices. But now,

seeing their quarry stand on the defensive, the pursuers checked

their advance, their cries sank to growling murmurs, till, with a

fierce shout, one of their number rushed forward brandishing a heavy

stick, whereupon the others followed, and there, in the echoing

dimness, the battle was joined, and waxed furious and grim.

Almost at the first onset the slender cane Barnabas wielded broke

short off, and he was borne staggering back, the centre of a panting,

close-locked, desperate fray. But in that narrow space his

assailants were hampered by their very numbers, and here was small

room for bludgeon-play,--and Barnabas had his fists.

There came a moment of thudding blows, trampling feet, oaths, cries,

--and Barnabas was free, staring dazedly at his broken knuckles. He

heard a sudden shout, a vicious roar, and the Bow Street Runner,

dropping the nobbly stick, tottered weakly and fell,--strove to rise,

was smitten down again, and, in that moment, Barnabas was astride him;

felt the shock of stinging blows, and laughing fierce and short,

leapt in under the blows, every nerve and muscle braced and quivering;

saw a scowling face,--smote it away; caught a bony wrist, wrenched

the bludgeon from the griping fingers, struck and parried and struck

again with untiring arm, felt the press thin out before him as his

assailants gave back, and so, stood panting.