n they
turned the court-house corner.

"Yes, marster."

At this moment a large crowd of men, comprising all the idle population
in town, as well as many Saturday-night bacchanalians from the country
and coasts, some standing before the tavern, others on the opposite
sidewalks or gathered on the court-house corner, seeing the hatted
figure of Meshach rise against the moonlight, raised the scattering
cry, finally deepening into a yell, of:

"Man with the hat loose! Steeple-top! Three cheers for old Meshach's
hat!"

With a minute's irresolution, as if hesitating to go through the crowd,
Milburn turned into the main street, crossed it, and continued down the
opposite sidewalk, on the same side with his domicile, the jeers and
jests still continuing.

"Dar's rum a workin' in dis town all arternoon, marster," his faithful
negro said, "eber sence dat long man come in from de churchyard wid
Levin Dennis. Look out, marster!"

He had scarcely spoken, when three men were seen to bar the way, two of
them drunk, the third ugly with drink, emerging from a groggery that
stood across the street from the tavern, where further beverage had been
denied them. The first was Jack Wonnell. He hiccoughed, cried
"Steeple-top!" and slunk behind a mulberry-tree. The second man was
Levin Dennis, hardly able to stand, and he sat down on the groggery
step, smiling up idiotically.

The third man, rising like a giant out of his boots, with his arms
swaying like loose grapevines, and his bearded face streaked with
tobacco drippings, looking insolence and contempt, brought the flat of
one hand fairly down on the crown of Milburn's surprising tile, with the
words:

"Halloo! Yer's Goosecap! Hocus that cady, Old Gripefist!"

The hat, age being against it, wilted down on Meshach's eyes, and the
heedless stroke, unconsciously powerful, staggered him.

Samson, who had drunk in the giant's qualifications with an instant's
admiration, immediately drew off, seeing his master insulted, and struck
the tall stranger a blow with his fist. The man reeled, rallied, and
sought to grapple with Samson. That skilful pugilist bent his knees,
slided his shoulders back, and, avoiding the clutch, raised, and threw
his trunk forward, with the blow studied well, and planted his knuckles
in the white man's eyes. The tall ruffian went down as from a bolt of
lightning.

Milburn saw all this happen in a minute of time, and his eye, looking
for something to defend hi