“Yah—yah!” came in a menacing yell.
“Over with you, lads!” cried a great ruffian, clapping his hands on the counter and making a spring, which the pressure behind checked and hindered, so that he only got one leg on the counter.
“Back, you ruffian!” cried Sir Gordon, taking a step forward, and, quick as lightning, presenting a pistol at the fellow’s head. “You, Dick Warren, I gave you six months for stealing corn. Move an inch forward, and as I am a man I’ll fire.”
There was a fierce murmur, and then a pause.
The great ruffian half crouched upon the counter, crossing his eyes in his fear, and squinting crookedly down the pistol barrel, which was within a foot of his head.
“I say, gentlemen and customers, that Mr Thickens here is waiting to pay over all demands on Dixons’ Bank.”
“Hear, hear!” cried the farmer who had before spoken.
“But there are twenty or thirty dirty ruffians among you, and people who do not bank with us, and I must ask you to turn them out.”
There was a fierce murmur here, and Sir Gordon’s voice rose again high and clear.
“Mr Trampleasure, you will find the loaded firearms ready in the upper room. Go up, sir, and without hesitation shoot down the first scoundrel who dares to throw a stone at the bank.”