“I don’t want no grog,” said Jem; “and I should thank you to tell your men to let me pass.”
“Yes, by-and-by,” said the officer. “Now then, my lads, sharp.”
A couple of men crowded on Jem, one of them forcing himself between the sturdy fellow and Don, whose cheeks flushed with anger as he felt himself rudely thrust up against the wall of one of the houses.
“Here, what are you doing of?” cried Jem sharply.
“Being civil,” said one of the men with a laugh. “There, no nonsense. Come quiet.”
He might just as well have said that to an angry bull, for as he and his companion seized Jem by the arms, they found for themselves how strong those arms were, one being sent staggering against Don, and the other being lifted off his legs and dropped upon his back.
“Now, Mas’ Don, run!” shouted Jem.
But before the words were well out of his lips, the party closed in upon him, paying no heed to Don, who in accordance with Jem’s command had rushed off in retreat.
A few moments later he stopped, for Jem was not with him, but struggling with all his might in the midst of the knot of men who were trying to hold him.
“Mas’ Don! Help, help!” roared Jem; and Don dashed at the gang, his fists clenched, teeth set, and a curious singing noise in his ears. But as he reached the spot where his companion was making a desperate struggle for his liberty, Jem shouted again,—