One of the men burst into a hoarse laugh.
“I’ve hardly any money,” cried the captain; “a guinea or two. If I give you that will you go?”
“Curse your money, you cowardly hound!” cried the second man.
“How dare you, dog!” cried the captain. “Do you know who I am?”
“James Armstrong,” said the same speaker. “Now, lad, quick!”
“You shall—”
The captain’s words turned into a yell of agony as he received a violent blow from a stick across one arm, numbing it, and before its echo rose from the steep slope of the hill a second and a third blow fell, which were followed by a shower, the unfortunate man yelling, beseeching, and shrieking with agony and fear. He dropped upon his knees and begged piteously for mercy; but his tormentors laughed, and seized the opportunity he offered to apply their blows more satisfactorily. Back, arms, legs, all in turn, were belaboured as two men beat a carpet, till the victim’s cries grew hoarse, then faint, and finally ceased, and he lay in the trampled road, crushed almost to a mummy, and unable to stir hand or foot; and then, and then only, did his assailants cease.
“Ain’t killed him, have we, Abel, lad?” said the bigger of the two men.
“Killed? No. We never touched his head. It would take a deal to kill a thing like him. Captain!” he said, mockingly. “What a cowardly whelp to command men!”
“What shall we do now?” whispered the bigger man.