But now Schocks’s boy had grasped his opportunity. He had been working discreetly round behind Mr. Benshaw, and as the hoe smote he leapt upon that hero’s back and seized him about the neck with both arms and bore him staggering to the ground, and Rymell, equally quick, and used to the tackling of formidable creatures, had snatched and twisted away the hoe and grappled Mr. Benshaw almost before he was down. The first of Mr. Benshaw’s helpers to reach the fray found the issue decided, his master held down conclusively and a growing circle trampling down a wide area of strawberry plants about the panting group.... Mr. Mumby, more frightened than hurt, was already sitting up, but the tramp with a glowing wound upon his cheekbone and an expression of astonishment in his face, lay low and pawed the earth. “What d’you mean,” gasped Mr. Rymell, “hitting people about with that hoe?” “What d’you mean,” groaned Mr. Benshaw, “running across my strawberries?” “We were going after that boy.” “Pounds and pounds’ worth of damage. Mischief and wickedness.... Mumby!” Mr. Rymell, suddenly realizing the true values of the situation, released Mr. Benshaw’s hands and knelt up. “Look here, Mr. Benshaw,” he said, “you seem to be under the impression we are trespassing.” Mr. Benshaw, struggling into a sitting position was understood to enquire with some heat what Mr. Rymell called it. Schocks’s boy picked up the hat with the erotic brim and handed it to the horticulturist silently and respectfully. “We were not trespassing,” said Mr. Rymell. “We were following up that boy. _He_ was trespassing, if you like.... By the bye,—where _is_ the boy? Has anyone caught him?” At the question, attention which had been focussed upon Mr. Benshaw and his hoe, came round. Across the field in the direction of the sunlit half acre of glass the little tailor was visible standing gingerly and picking up his red slippers for the third time—they would come off in that loose good soil, everybody else had left the trail to concentrate on Mr. Benshaw—and Bealby—. Bealby was out of sight. He had escaped, clean got away. “What boy?” asked Mr. Benshaw. “Ferocious little beast who’s fought us like a rat. Been committing all sorts of crimes about the country. Five pounds reward for him.” “Fruit stealing?” asked Mr. Benshaw. “Yes,” said Mr. Rymell, chancing it. Mr. Benshaw reflected slowly. His eyes surveyed his trampled crops. “Gooo _Lord_!” he cried. “Look at those strawberries!” His voice gathered violence. “And that lout there!” he said. “Why!—he’s lying on them! That’s the brute who went for me!” “You got him a pretty tidy one side the head!” said Maccullum. The tramp rolled over on some fresh strawberries and groaned pitifully. “He’s hurt,” said Mr. Mumby. The tramp flopped and lay still. “Get some water!” said Rymell, standing up. At the word water, the tramp started convulsively, rolled over and sat up with a dazed expression.