A fresh group of town boys were hovering about in the rear, their number being now augmented by one or two of a larger size.
"Yah! Thatch! you can't hit 'em! Come 'ere and let's see that stick you was talking about."
"I say," whispered Raymond to his cousin, "wouldn't it be a lark to pretend to make a good shot, and knock that lamp over." He pointed as he spoke to one of the flaring oil lamps which, fastened to a stake a few feet above the ground, illuminated the line of nuts.
"No, don't do it," answered Jack; but the warning came too late. Raymond threw with all his might, and, as ill-luck would have it, the aim was only too true; the heavy wooden ball hit the lamp a sounding whack, dashed it from its stand, and the next moment the canvas screen at the back of the pitch against which it fell was all in a blaze.
In an instant all was confusion. Quick as thought Raymond turned, and slipped away between the wheels of a caravan which stood close by. The proprietor of the pitch sprang forward and seized Jack by the coat.
"'Ere, you did that," he cried, "and you did it a purpose."
The crowd of juvenile roughs closed in behind.
"Yes, 'e did it," they cried; "'e's the man."
"I didn't do it," retorted the boy. "Leave go!"
Rosher leaned forward, and giving his friend a nudge, uttered the one word,—