So, giving up that idea, he paused a few moments, till the man raised his head a little higher, so as to get a better view of those below, and then with one bold spring, Fred was upon his back, with the point of his sword driven in a peculiar way into the soft earth.
That idea had occurred to him at the last moment, and even in the intense excitement of the moment he smiled, as he saw in it success, for it effectually baffled the man in what was his first effort—to draw his sword, which was pinned, as it were, to the ground by Fred’s weapon being passed directly through the hilt.
There was an angry snort, as of a startled beast, a tremendous heave, and a coarse brown hand made a dart at the sword-blade, and was snatched away with an exclamation of pain. Then in fiercely remonstrant tones a harsh voice shouted—
“You coward! Only let me get a chance!”
“Samson!” cried Fred, starting back as he removed his knee from the back of the man’s head, and the ex-gardener’s steel cap rolled over to the side.
“Master Fred!” was the answer; and Samson turned over and sat up, staring in his assailant’s face.
“You here?”
“Here, sir, yes; and look what you’ve done. Don’t ketch me sharping your sword again, if you’re going to serve me like that.”
He held up his hand, which was bleeding from the fact of his having seized hold of the blade which had pinned down his hilt.
“But I thought you were one of the enemy—a spy.”