"No, ye don't, Sam!" he snapped, catching him by the wrist with such a wrench that the bright blade fell to the ground. With a scream, Hawker struck at his face, but Blackstock parried the blow, tripped him neatly, and fell on him.
"Hold him fast, boys," he ordered. "Seems like he's gone mad. Don't let him hurt himself."
In five seconds the raving man was trussed up helpless as a chicken, his hands tied behind his back, his legs lashed together at the knees, so that he could neither run nor kick. Then he was lifted to his feet, and held thus, inexorably but with commiseration.
"Sorry to be rough with ye, Sam," said one of the constables, "but ye've gone crazy as a bed-bug."
"Never knowed Sam was such a friend o' Jake's!" muttered another, with deepest pity.
But Blackstock stood close beside the body of the murdered man, and watched with a face of granite the efforts of Jim to dig under the big white stone. His absorption in such an apparently frivolous matter attracted the notice of the crowd. A hush fell upon them all, broken only by the hoarse, half-smothered ravings of Sam Hawker.
"'Tain't no woodchuck Jim's diggin' for, you see!" muttered one of the constables to the puzzled Stephens.
"Tug don't seem to think so, neither," agreed Stephens.
"Angus," said Blackstock in a low, strained voice to the constable who had just spoken, "would ye mind stepping round an' givin' Jim a lift with that there stone!"
The constable hastened to obey. As he approached, Jim looked up, his face covered thickly with earth, wagged his tail in greeting, then fell to work again with redoubled energy.