“You cowards!” roared Vane; “put down those sticks, or come in front.”
The lads did neither, and finding in spite of his rage the necessity for caution, Vane sprang to a tree, making it a comrade to defend his back, and then struck out wildly at his assailants.
So far his efforts were in vain. Sticks reach farther than fists, and his hands both received stinging blows, one on his right, numbing it for the moment and making him pause to wonder what such an unheard-of attack could mean.
Thoughts fly quickly at all times, but with the greatest swiftness in emergencies, and as Vane now stood at bay he could see that these two lads had been watching him for some time past, and that the attack had only been delayed for want of opportunity.
“I always knew that gipsies could steal,” he thought, “but only in a little petty, pilfering way. This is highway robbery, and if I give them all I’ve got they will let me go.”
Then he considered what he had in his pockets—about seven shillings, including the half-pence—and a nearly new pocket-knife. He was just coming to the conclusion that he might just as well part with this little bit of portable property and escape farther punishment, when one of the boys made a feint at his head and brought his stick down with a sounding crack, just above his left knee, while the other struck him on the shoulder.
Vane’s blood was up now, and forgetting all about compromising, he dashed at one of his assailants, hitting out furiously, getting several blows home, in spite of the stick, and the next minute would have torn it from the young scoundrel’s grasp if the other had not attacked him so furiously behind that he had to turn and defend himself there.
This gave the boy he was beating time to recover himself, and once more Vane was attacked behind and had to turn again.
All this was repeated several times, Vane getting far the worst of the encounter, for the gipsy lads were as active as cats and wonderfully skilful at dealing blows; but all the
