Meanwhile, while this and a number of other incidents were taking place, Mr. Jones had come up with Charles Peace, who was once more in the valiant footman’s grasp.
Peace now fought like a tiger; he threw himself down and kicked his assailant unmercifully, and the chances were that he would have got the better of Jones had not the stableman come to the rescue.
“He’s the most determined little brute that mortal man ever set eyes on,” remarked James Jones. “He is the very devil himself, I do believe.”
“We’ll devil him,” returned the stableman. “The best way to serve a chap of this sort is to prevent him from doing further mischief. He’s a kicker, you see, and wants the kicking-strap put on.”
And with these words the man fastened Peace’s legs together with a strap, after which he pinioned his arms with a rope.
When this had been done, he said—
“Now, Jem, we’ll carry him into the stable, and lock him in till we get a bobby or two to look arter him.”
“You cowardly scoundrels!” exclaimed Peace, in a paroxysm of rage, “you shall suffer for this.”
“Go on, guv’nor, take your fill of abuse,” returned the stableman. “Did your mother have any more of your sort?”
Peace was carried into the stable and bound to a post. Then the stable door was locked on him, and he was left to his reflections which were anything but of an agreeable nature.