He gave Gentles his stick and walked with him to the gate, which he unlocked and held open for him to pass out groaning and suffering horribly.
“Good-night, honest faithful workman!” he said; “friendly man who only wanted to be left alone. Do you want your can of powder? No: I’ll keep it as a memento of your visit, and for fear you might have an accident at home.”
The man groaned again as he passed out and staggered.
“Poor wretch!” said Uncle Jack, so that I alone heard him. “Ignorance and brutality. Here,” he said aloud, “take my arm. I’ll help you on to your house. One good turn deserves another.”
Uncle Jack went to him and took his stick in his hand, when, fancying I heard something, I turned on the light just in time to show Uncle Jack his danger, for half a dozen men armed with sticks came out of the shadow of the wall and rushed at him.
It was fortunate for him that he had taken back the stout oak walking-stick that he made his companion on watching nights, or he would have been beaten down.
As it was he received several heavy blows, but he parried others, and laid about him so earnestly that two men went down, and another fell over Gentles.
By that time my uncle had retreated to the gate, darted through, and banged and locked it in his enemies’ face.
“Rather cowardly to retreat, Cob,” he panted; “but six to one are long odds. Where’s the powder can?”
“I have it, uncle,” I said.