Ben Bruce.
“Go away, you robber!” ejaculated the farmer, clinging to his treasure with the energy of despair. He was evidently more afraid of losing that than of receiving bodily injury, though the wicked eyes of his assailant might well have inspired physical apprehension.
The conflict was unequal. Mr. Winter was probably sixty years of age, while his assailant was only half that, and was a larger man in every way.
“Look here, old man,” said the tramp, angered by the farmer’s resistance, “you’d better give up your money or you’ll get hurt!”
“I’ll send you to jail!” shrieked Jacob Winter.
“Maybe you will, if I don’t get away too quick,” laughed the tramp.
“Aren’t you ashamed to rob a poor old man?”
“Oh, I guess you’ve got some more money. You won’t die in the poorhouse.”
By this time the man had got the box into his hands, and now prepared to walk off with it.
“Help! help!” shrieked the farmer.