“Hold your hand, you big coward. If you dare strike either of those fellows, well not leave a particle of skin on the flesh of your back, let me tell you,” shouted a voice in a loud tone.
One of the parties was led by Buttar, the other by Bracebridge. The latter had spoken. Buttar uttered a similar caution; but Blackall, seeing that only younger boys composed the approaching bands,
and fancying that they would not venture to interfere with him, resolved for very pride not to desist from his purpose, and down came his weapon on the backs of the two prostrate victims of his tyranny. It was equivalent to a declaration of war to the knife.
“On, on, on,” shouted Bracebridge and Buttar.
Their followers required no second appeal.
“Remember what I told you,” shouted Ernest—“Each man to his duty.”
The bully turned round and gazed, first on one side and then on the other, at the approaching bands. He was observed to turn pale, even though he flourished his colt above his head, and uttered loud threats of vengeance against any who might dare to approach him. A scornful laugh was the only answer he received, as the two bands advancing in double quick time completely surrounded him, and then with a shout threw themselves upon him. Some seized his neck, others his arms, and others his legs, in spite of his kicks and blows, while others passing a rope round his body he was speedily tripped up and hauled down to the ground. He swore, and shouted, and threatened more loudly than ever.
“Gag him, gag him,” suggested Buttar. “Don’t let the fellow talk blasphemy.”
“I’ll half murder you some day for this, you Buttar, you,” cried the bully, glaring fiercely at him.