“Trying to humbug me with your lying gammon about the axe. It’s as sharp as sharp.”
“It is not, sir,” cried the convict, angrily now. “Take it and judge for yourself.”
He held it out so quickly that Brookes started back, and brought down the fork-handle with all his might, striking the axe from the man’s hand.
“What!” he roared. “Would you, you murderous dog? Take that—and that—and that!”
As he spoke he struck again savagely with the stout ash handle, the second blow falling heavily upon the convict’s shoulder, the third coming sharply upon his head and making the blood spurt forth from a long deep cut.
Then the fork was raised for another blow; but, quick as lightning, the convict flung himself forward, and his fist, with all the weight of his body behind it, caught his assailant full in the face, sending him down to strike the back of his head against the edge of the wood block, and lie there yelling for help.
“Murder! help! Sam!” he roared, as he lay there, a ghastly object, with the convict’s foot planted upon his chest, he too bleeding freely from the wound in his head.
At one and the same time Mrs Braydon, her daughters, and old Samson came running up in alarm.
“Here! what’s the matter?” said the latter, while Mrs Braydon turned sick at the horrible sight, and caught at her elder daughter’s hand.
“Can’t you see what’s the matter?” cried Brookes. “Get a gun, Sam, quick! He tried to murder me.”