“You fancy there’s mischief brewing?” said the vicar, sternly.
“Well, yes, sir, I do,” said the landlord. “You see, the men hold a kind of lodge or brotherhood meeting at my place, and I can’t help knowing of some o’ their doings.”
“Well, Mr Robinson, if mischief is brewing, it’s my business to try and spoil the brew; so I am going out to-night, and if you’ve any respect for me, you’ll come and help me in my task.”
He hurried on, and a short time after, the landlord saw him go by, with Tom Podmore and John Maine following at a short distance.
“Parson’s a chap with brains in his head,” said the landlord. “He’s got a couple o’ good bull-dogs to tramp at his heels; and, dal me, if they aint beckoned Big Harry to ’em. Well, I’ll go too. I aint going to faight; but if I see any man hit parson, dal me, but I’ll gi’e him a blob.”
The vicar was not without hope that Richard would think better of the matter, and keep indoors, and after a turn or two up and down the street, which was pretty well thronged, the men looking stolid and heavy, but civilly making way for him, and always with a friendly word, it seemed as if there was nothing to fear, when from the lane at the side of the Big House there came a loud shout, and in an instant the whole of the men in the High Street seemed galvanised into life.
The vicar made for the lane, and had nearly reached it, when he saw Richard Glaire hatless and with his coat half-ripped from his back, rush out, pursued by shout and cry; and before the vicar and his little band of followers could get up, the young man was surrounded by a knot of men striking at him savagely, one of them hitting up the hand that held a pistol, which exploded, the bullet striking the opposite wall far over the heads of his assailants, and the weapon then fell to the ground.
A storm of furious cries arose, above which was a wild shriek from one of the windows of the big house—a shriek that sent two-fold vigour to the vicar’s arms, as he struggled with the crowd that kept him back.
“Quick, Tom! Maine! Harry!” he cried. “Now, a rush together,” he said, as they forced themselves to his side; and with all their might they made for the spot where Richard Glaire seemed to be undergoing the fate of being torn to pieces, for he was now stripped to shirt and trousers, and his face was bleeding; but, literally at bay, he fought savagely for his life.
The dash made by Mr Selwood saved him for the time, for though the vicar and his followers, with whom was now the landlord, did not reach the young man, they rent the crowd of assailants so as to make an avenue for him to escape, and he darted off at full speed towards the vicarage.