From outside came fierce shouts, pistol shots, the clash of weapons. Pratt dashed out. Gradoff and his gang (all but Rush, who had surrendered at once) were sustaining an unequal struggle with the infuriated villagers who had closed upon them. On the one side Warrender, with Rogers and the rest, on the other the group of villagers collected by Drew--of whom the general dealer, smarting for his unpaid bill, had constituted himself the temporary leader in rivalry with Constable Hardstone--a body of some twenty determined men, who were perhaps a little breathless from haste. Not so with the others. As Samson lost his strength with his hair, so these international adventurers, desperate, courageous enough, holding life cheap, became as children under the debilitating pungency of pepper. A man cannot sneeze and fight. Some few shots were fired; a bullet grazed Rogers's shining skull; another struck out of Blevins's hand the mallet he carried; a third carried away the lobe of an ear from a young carter, who refused to leave the field until he had found it. Short, sharp, decisive, the battle ended in a general capitulation. Only one of the foreigners escaped; Gradoff, seeing that all was lost, kept his last bullet for himself.
From the doorway Mr. Pratt had watched the pinioning of the prisoners. A cheer broke from his neighbours and tenants. And, just as a move towards the house was being made, Mr. Crawshay and two of his men, armed with shot-guns, came trotting across the sward.
"God bless you, Pratt, my dear fellow," cried the old gentleman, grasping his neighbour by the hand, and shaking it vigorously up and down.
Mr. Pratt sneezed.
"And you, Crawshay," he said. "But try the other hand, my friend; my right arm bears an honourable wound."
EPILOGUE
It was Saturday afternoon. The spacious lawn in front of Mr. Crawshay's house was spread with bamboo tables and deck-chairs. At the porch stood Mr. Crawshay and Mr. Ambrose Pratt side by side, smoking long cigars, chatting and laughing with the familiarity of old friends. Mr. Pratt's right arm was in a sling.
"It's time they came," said Mr. Crawshay, taking out his watch. He wore a large panama, and his suit of spotless ducks gave him a festal air.
"They're probably squabbling for precedence," said Mr. Pratt; "not on social grounds, but for modesty. It's an ordeal, you know, Crawshay; and when they see your rig, and that purple tie of yours, they'll be abashed."
"What'll they say to the women, then?" returned Mr. Crawshay. "Upon my soul, Pratt, I think you are right to come in your old clothes; they'll feel more at home. It never occurred to me."