“You’re sure he’s done for?” inquired Mr. Brown.
“Done for!” and a second time the scoundrel produced his implement of murder. “Is there a skull in England that would require a second blow of that small article?”
“The man is safe enough, no doubt,” returned Mr. Brown; “but what can have happened to Frank? Hark—by Heaven! he’s at the door!—All’s right!”
The signal was a curious imitation of angry cats, accompanied by a low sound upon the house-bell. Mr. Brown at once hurried down, and gave admission to his hunchbacked favourite, who followed him to the upper-chamber, accompanied by the ruffian called “the smasher.”
To the joint inquiries of the Jew and Mr. Brown, the deformed one gave satisfactory replies. It appeared that in the act of falling, I had kicked the weak wretch from me with such violence as drove him across the narrow lane; and before he could gather himself up again, the fosterer and his friend achieved my rescue. Self-preservation was now the hunchback’s care; and, crawling away unperceived in the confusion, he coiled himself in an obscure corner, from which, though concealed himself, all that passed subsequently was visible. Thence, he witnessed my recovery, and saw me, with slight assistance, leave the scene of the attempt upon my life. In several efforts to get off, the scoundrel had been nearly detected; and when he did succeed, he and his confederate were delayed by the removal of their disabled comrade; and hence, an hour elapsed before he could reach the dwelling of his worthy master.
“Where’s Bill?” was Mr. Brown’s first inquiry.
“Stretched with a broken jawbone in the Fortune of War,” was the reply.
“It seems the job was any thing but an easy one. But it’s done—and that’s a satisfaction.”
“It would have been,” returned the hunchback, “if I had not dropped the gully.”
“What the devil do ye mean?—Isn’t he finished?”