The Amateur Gentleman

"Very true," nodded Barnabas, "and no hat ever could have had a

more--useful end, than mine."

"V'y yes, sir--better your castor than your sconce any day," said

Mr. Shrig, "and now I think it's about time for us to--wenture forth.

But, sir," he added impressively, "if the conclusion as I've drawed

is correct, theer's safe to be shooting if you're recognized, so

keep in the shadder o' the wall, d' ye see. Now, are ye ready?--keep

behind me--so. Here they come, I think."

Somewhere along the dark River hoarse cries arose, and the confused

patter of running feet that drew rapidly louder and more distinct.

Nearer they came until Barnahas could hear voices that panted out

fierce curses; also he heard Mr. Shrig's pistol click as it was

cocked.

So, another minute dragged by and then, settling his broad-brimmed

hat more firmly, Mr. Shrig sprang nimbly from his lurking-place and

fronted the on-comers with levelled weapon: "Stand!" he cried, "stand--in the King's name!"

By the feeble light of the moon, Barnabas made out divers figures who,

checking their career, stood huddled together some yards away, some

scowling at the threatening posture of Mr. Shrig, others glancing

back over their shoulders towards the dimness behind, whence came a

shrill whistle and the noise of pursuit.

"Ah, you may look!" cried Mr. Shrig, "but I've got ye, my lambs--all

on ye! You, Bunty Fagan, and Dancing Jimmy, I know you, and you know

me, so stand--all on ye. The first man as moves I'll shoot--stone

dead, and v'en I says a thing I--"

A sudden, blinding flash, a deafening report, and, dropping his

pistol, Mr. Shrig groaned and staggered up against the wall. But

Barnabas was ready and, as their assailants rushed, met them with

whirling stick.

It was desperate work, but Barnabas was in the mood for it,

answering blow with blow, and shout with shout.

"Oh, Jarsper!" roared a distant voice, "we're coming. Hold 'em,

Jarsper!"

So Barnabas struck, and parried, and struck, now here, now there,

advancing and retreating by turns, until the flailing stick

splintered in his grasp, and he was hurled back to the wall and

borne to his knees. Twice he struggled up, but was beaten down again,

--down and down into a choking blackness that seemed full of griping

hands and cruel, trampling feet.

Faint and sick, dazed with his hurts, Barnabas rose to his knees and

so, getting upon unsteady feet, sought to close with one who

threatened him with upraised bludgeon, grasped at an arm, missed,

felt a stunning shock,--staggered back and back with the sounds of

the struggle ever fainter to his failing senses, tripped, and falling

heavily, rolled over upon his back, and so lay still.