‘That big cove’s a yokel; ta’nt creditable to waste science on him. You’re my man, if you please, sir,’—and the little wiry lump of courage and conceit, rascality and good humour, flew at Lancelot, who was twice his size, ‘with a heroism worthy of a better cause,’ as respectable papers, when they are not too frightened, say of the French.
* * * * *
‘Do you want any more?’ asked Lancelot.
‘Quite a pleasure, sir, to meet a scientific gen’lman. Beg your pardon, sir; stay a moment while I wipes my face. Now, sir, time, if you please.’
Alas for the little man! in another moment he tumbled over and lay senseless—Lancelot thought he had killed him. The gang saw their champion fall, gave ground, and limped off, leaving three of their party groaning on the ground, beside as many Whitford men.
As it was in the beginning, so is it to be to the end, my foolish brothers! From the poacher to the prime minister—wearying yourselves for very vanity! The soldier is not the only man in England who is fool enough to be shot at for a shilling a day.
But while all the rest were busy picking up the wounded men and securing the prisoners, Harry Verney alone held on, and as the poachers retreated slowly up the ride, he followed them, peering into the gloom, as if in hopes of recognising some old enemy.
‘Stand back, Harry Verney; we know you, and we’d be loth to harm an old man,’ cried a voice out of the darkness.
‘Eh? Do you think old Harry’d turn back when he was once on the track of ye? You soft-fisted, gin-drinking, counter-skipping Cockney rascals, that fancy you’re to carry the county before you, because you get your fines paid by London-tradesmen! Eh? What do you take old Harry for?’
‘Go back, you old fool!’ and a volley of oaths followed. ‘If you follow us, we’ll fire at you, as sure as the moon’s in heaven!’