Lovejoy sat pale and unabashed, his eyes glittering like those of a snake. He had refused all offers of food, and seemed to be giving all his attention to Israel Spurlock. “What does Moseley say?” asked Colonel Watson. “Ah, he is your prisoner,” said Moseley. “He never struck me as a dangerous man.” “Well,” said Chadwick, “ef there’s any doubt, jest take ’im out in the yard an’ give ’im han’-roomance. Don’t let ’im turn this table over, ’cause it’ll be a long time before some of this company’ll see the likes of it ag’in.” It was clear that Lovejoy had no friends, even among his comrades. It was clear, too, that this fact gave him no concern. He undoubtedly had more courage than his position seemed to demand. He sat glaring at Spurlock, and said never a word. Uncle Billy Powers looked at him, and gave a sigh that ended in a groan. “Well, boys,” said the old man, “this is my house, an’ he’s at my table. I reckon we better ontie ’im, an’ let ’im git a mou’ful ter eat. ’T ain’t nothin’ but Christian-like.” “Don’t you reckon he’d better eat at the second table?” inquired Chadwick. This naïve suggestion provoked laughter and restored good humor, and Colonel Watson consented that Lovejoy should be released. Danny Lemmons undertook this gracious task. He had released Lovejoy’s right arm, and was releasing the left, having to use his teeth on one of the knots, when the prisoner seized a fork—a large horn-handle affair, with prongs an inch and a half long—and as quick as a flash of lightning brought it down on Danny Lemmons’s back. To those who happened to be looking it seemed that the fork had been plunged into the very vitals of the hunchback. The latter went down, dragging Lovejoy after him. There was a short, sharp struggle, a heavy thump or two, and then, before the company realized what had happened, Danny Lemmons rose to his feet laughing, leaving Lovejoy lying on the floor, more securely bound than ever. “I reckon this fork’ll have to be washed,” said Danny, lifting the formidable-looking weapon from the floor. There was more excitement after the struggle was over than there had been or could have been while it was going on. Chadwick insisted on examining Danny Lemmons’s back. “I’ve saw folks cut an’ slashed an’ stobbed before now,” he explained, “an’ they didn’t know they was hurt tell they had done cooled off. They ain’t no holes here an’ they ain’t no blood, but I could ’most take a right pine-blank oath that I seed ’im job that fork in your back.” “Tut, tut!” said Colonel Watson. “Do you s’pose I raised Danny Lemmons for the like of that?” “Well,” said Chadwick, resuming his seat and his dinner with unruffled nerves, temper, and appetite, “it beats the known worl’. It’s the fust time I ever seed a man git down on the floor for to give the in-turn an’ the under-cut, an’ cut the pigeon-wing an’ the double-shuffle, all before a cat could bat her eye. It looks to me that as peart a man as Lemmons there ought to be in the war.”