and roars for vengeance there was added the sharp crackle of his
alarm signal.

By this time the leaders of the rioters had rubbed the dust from
their eyes and came towards me, the foremost of them, Cyrus Vetch,
shouting to his comrades to spit me like a toad. He had recognized
me, and sprang towards the doorway where I stood with staff aslant,
the trembling watchman still whirling his rattle behind. Mad with
rage he cut at me with his sword, which bit deep into the staff, by
that very fact becoming for a brief moment useless.

Before Vetch could recover his weapon, I had withdrawn mine, and
lunging fair upon him, I dealt him a thrust that sent him spinning
halfway across the street. But I was now beset by his comrades, who
made at me from both sides of the porch, but for whose shelter I
should in all likelihood have been overborne.

They had some sense of fair play, however. They returned their
swords to the scabbards, and were for trusting to their fists
alone. I contrived to give one of them a smart tap on the crown
before they came to close quarters; but ere I could recover myself
they were upon me, the staff was wrenched from my grasp, and I was
as hard put to it as a stag bayed by hounds. I made what play I
could with my fists, and got home at least one blow for two; but
the odds were too heavy against me, and when at length a fellow as
big as myself slipped round to my back and gripped me hard by the
neck, all my struggles did not avail to prevent my being shoved and
pulled and hustled out into the middle of the street.

Vetch had picked himself up, and now came running towards me in a
frenzy. In his rage he had plucked off his mask, revealing his
distorted features to all the good folk who, I doubt not, by this
time had their heads out at their windows, viewing the scene from a
secure altitude.

"Out of the way, Mytton!" he screamed, his voice shrill with
passion. "Out of the way, I say; I will crop his ears, the cur!"

Burt Mytton, the fellow who had me by the neck, and some others of
the band, were not for pushing things to such extremities. They
closed about to protect me, and even Dick Cludde caught Vetch's arm
and expostulated with him. Another meanwhile had snatched old
Ivimey's rattle from him, and ever and anon amid the din I caught
the sound of his quavering voice calling, "Help for the watch! O my
sakes! O my bones!"

Then a cry arose:

"To the river! Give 'em a ducking!" and in another mom