Jack Bumpstead waited in the porch, with little coquettish flirts of something white swaying in the draught. He had been valorously quick in dressing, but his teeth chattered behind his thin beard.
"Take the oak bar, Jack; it's a good cudgel. How many of them?"
"May be a dozen."
"Fudge! Where's Jim Jenner?"
"I shouldn't like t' say, sir."
"No doubt back in bed and under the sheets by this time! Shout—if you can't fight, Jack; make a noise—anything. Come along."
They skirted along the terrace, turned down by the yew hedge, and so by the stone-paved passage between the bake-house and the great brick barn. The passage was in deep shadow, and Jasper had no notion that a man was lurking there till the yellow spurt of the powder in the priming-pan of a pistol made him throw himself against the wall. The piece missed fire, and the clatter of heavy boots over the stones betrayed what had become of the man who had pulled the trigger. There was some shouting in the stable yard, and the stamping of horses. One deep voice sent oaths flying, the savage and impatient oaths of a man in a fluster.
Jack Bumpstead had thrown himself flat on his face. He caught young Benham by the ankle.
"You shan't go for to be shot, master; they be some of Dan Stunt's gang."
"Let go—you fool!"