we should keep sight of him, and if anyone
asks a question of course we can say that the gentleman has the
toothache."

Presently Flash spoke to the ruffian in a low voice.

"Yes, I think you are right," he replied. "Look here," he went on,
raising his voice. "There is no occasion to have such a lot in this
business; Jake Watson, Bill the Tinker, and me are quite enough to carry
him to his bed. I reckon the rest had better make themselves scarce when
the times comes, go home, and keep their mouths shut. I need not say
that anyone who lets his tongue wag about it is likely to come to a
worse end than this bloodhound. We will have another glass of grog
before you turn out; the streets won't be quiet for another hour
yet, and there is another guinea of this worthy hawker's to be spent.
Summers, make another big bowl of punch. Don't put so much water in it
as you did in the last."

The landlord, a notorious ruffian, was just coming into the room with a
huge bowl when there was the sound of a scuffle outside.

"You had better see what is up," Black Jim said, and two of the men
nearest the door unbarred and opened it. As they did so there was a
rush, and eight powerful men ran in, knocking to the floor those who had
opened the door. The rest sprang to their feet; Gibbons looked round,
and as his eye fell upon Mark, who had, the moment the men inside rose,
got into a standing position, Gibbons launched himself towards him,
striking four of the ruffians who endeavored to stop him to the ground
with his crushing blows.

"This way," he shouted to his friends. "Ingleston and Tring, do you keep
the door."

The moment the six men had closed round Mark, one of them, taking
out his knife, cut the cords, removed the bandage from his mouth, and
extricated the gag. The name of the two prize fighters had created
something like a panic among the crowd, which had increased when one of
them shouted, "It is Charley Gibbons."

Flash and Emerson sprang to their feet with the rest, and the latter
shouted, "Go at them, men; there are only eight of them, and we are
twenty. Knife them, or you will all hang for this job."

The knowledge of their danger was evident to all the men, and, nerved by
desperation, they rushed at the prize fighters; but the eight were now
nine, and each of them in a fray of this kind was equal to half a dozen
ordinary men. Scarce a word was spoken, but the sound of crushing blows
and scuffling, and an occasional,