One afternoon, having dined early, Mole went for a walk in the suburbs of the town, and selecting a favourable spot, he reclined gracefully and dropped off into a gentle slumber.
How long he slept he never knew until this hour.
All he knew was that he dreamt that he was the hero of some gallant adventures, wherein the Greek brigands fell before his sword like corn before the reaper's sickle; yea, as the phantom miscreants succumbed to the onslaught of Don Quixote.
Now, while he slept, a man crawled out of the thicket upon all fours and looked eagerly about him.
The singular part of this incident was that, although the sleeping Mole was within six feet of the spot, he did not perceive him.
Mole was partly hidden by the thickly-grown bushes.
The man dragged himself painfully on; he was badly hurt.
One of his legs was broken, and he carried no less than three pistol bullets in his body; in short, it was little less than marvellous that he was able to crawl at all.
The history of this miserable wretch is soon told.
He had been shot down by the unerring aim of Nabley the detective, and feeling himself badly hurt, he had sought safety in flight while there was yet time.