"There he is—arrest him! I charge him with murder!" cried out a loud voice, a little upon one side.
"Ah! you there, mongrel cur?" scornfully cried the accused, with a look of contempt. "I thought I had finished you for good."
"See, he acknowledges it!" foamed Polk Redlaw; "I call you all to witness—"
"Dry up y'ur yaup," muttered one of his neighbors, giving Redlaw a shove that nearly sent him to the ground head-foremost.
"Curse you, Jack Fyffe!" snarled Polk, leaping at the man with a gleaming knife in his hand, "I'll cut your heart out!"
"So?" coolly exclaimed the burly fellow, dodging aside and dealing the battered head of his assailant a deftly-planted blow that brought him to grass. "'Pears like 's if y'ur ockyputt was a football, sorter."
"Stop your squabbling there," called out Neil McGuire, sternly. "The first one that creates a disturbance while I lead them, will be put under arrest. Young man," he added, turning to Poynter, who stood calmly scrutinizing the assembly before him, as if he would read his probable fate in their faces, "I regret it for your sake, but I must arrest you," at the same time ascending the steps and placing his hand upon Poynter's shoulder.
"Arrest me!" said the young man, shaking off the grasp and retreating a step. "And for what?"
A yell went up from the crowd; among the cries were fearful words—those of robbery and murder!
"You hear?" significantly returned McGuire.