“Indeed, we are all with you!” added a second voice, and Mr. Pym, the painter, appeared, hatless and with a long-hafted prawning-net in his hand. “The man Sayle has tyrannised hereabouts too long!”
“Aye, that ’e ’ave! That ’e ’ave!” cried others, and the crowd surged nearer with an angry muttering, insomuch that Mr. Oxham flourished his whip and scowled, while his satellites, for all their brawn, began to grow uneasy.
“At him, Oxham!” cried Mr. Sturton. “Pull him from his horse; he won’t dare to shoot!”
“Try!” quoth Sir John.
“Aye, come on, if ye will!” added Mr. Pym, brandishing his heavy-hafted net.
Here was a moment’s silence, and then Mr. Potter spoke:
“Thank ye heartily, friends an’ neighbours—and you most of arl, Mus’ Derwent, sir, but it bean’t no manner o’ good a-muckin’ yourself up arl-along-on-account-of poor Potter’s affairs, not nohow. There bean’t no man can’t nowise help poor Potter except Potter himself, I rackon, and, sir—Potter be agoin’ to try!”
As he uttered the last word Mr. Potter leapt, brawny fist a-swing with behind it all the weight, strength and impetus of powerful body; and, felled by that resistless blow, the large Mr. Oxham, for all his size, rolled helpless upon the roadway, while over his prostrate form leapt the fugitive and disappeared through the open doorway of ‘The Market Cross Inn,’ but with Sturton and divers others of Oxham’s men close upon his heels.
Next instant Sir John had plucked forth his pistols, dismounted and, entering the inn, beheld Sturton and his fellows staring around them and upon each other in speechless, wondering dismay, for save for themselves the place was empty; Mr. Potter, it seemed, had vanished into thin air.
It was a proportionate, fair-sized room with sanded floor, beamed ceiling and a wide hearth, where burned a cheery fire screened by a huge, high-backed settle.