Old Bates was the first who dared to assail Bob, but a well-directed blow, clean from the shoulder, knocked the red-nosed rascal off his legs.
Right manfully did Bob fight, but it was all to no purpose.
He was bound with cords; resistance was hopeless and useless.
He cast a look at Redgill—a glance that was filled with venom and scorn.
“Villain!” he said. “We have met before, bloodthirsty scoundrel! Do you remember the night of my father’s murder, red-handed knave? You shall not always triumph; my day will come.”
“What does the rogue say?” Redgill remarked, coolly.
“Oh, never mind him, sir,” said Captain Jack, recognizing in Redgill the young man who had escaped from the carriage and given him the purse of gold, “never mind him, sir; he’s only raving. All your great criminals rave and rant when officers lay their hands upon ’em; it’s quite natural, just like pigs when they’re going to be killed—they always squeal most then. Lor, bless yer, sir, we’ve had lots of criminals in hand in our time, ain’t we, Bates?”
“I believe yer,” said that worthy.
Turning to Bob, who was bound now with cords he said, “What d’yer mean by calling this ’ere gentleman names for, eh? Why, we knows him well,” said Bates, in allusion to Redgill.
“If you do,” said Bob, “take care of him; he is the man who murdered my father, not me; his name is Bolton.”