“No, no, don’t send us away, Bob,” I said; “we want to see.”
“Well, you will be witnesses,” he growled, and the next minute he took the lantern from Polly, who was panting with excitement.
“Oh, father dear,” she cried, “are you hurt?”
“Not a bit, my lass,” he cried, stooping quickly and kissing her. “Will you stay or go? It’s ugly.”
“Stay, father.”
“Right, my lass. Now, Mr Lomax, what about this chap you downed,” he continued, holding the lantern so that the light fell upon the kneeling man, whose forehead was bleeding freely. “You give it him and no mistake,” he chuckled. “Here, tie this hankychy round your head, and don’t bellow there like a great calf. Master Burr junior, pick up and take charge of that gun, will you? Stop! let’s see if she’s loaded. No. All right. I forgot. She went off herself, I suppose,” he added grimly, “when he tried to shoot Mr Lomax or me.”
“I didn’t,” whimpered the man.
“There, don’t make wuss on it by telling lies, you skulking hound,” cried Bob, who was as fierce now as could be. “Mr Lomax, will you see as he don’t get away?”
“He’d better try to,” said the old sergeant, making his stick whizz through the air.
“Now, where’s t’other?” said Hopley. “Mind, keep back, you lads. He’s got a gun too, and he’s hurt, and may be savage.”