Long Kirby was the first man out of that murder-hole; and after him the others toppled one by one--men and dogs jostling one another in the frenzy of their fear. Big Bell, Londesley, Tupper, Hoppin, Teddy Bolstock, white-faced and trembling; and old Saunderson they pulled out by his heels. Then the door was shut with a clang, and the little man and mad dog were left alone. In the street was already a big-eyed crowd, attracted by the uproar; while at the door was James Moore, seeking entrance. “Happen I could lend the little mon a hand,” said he; but they withheld him forcibly. Inside was pandemonium: bangings like the doors of hell; the bellowing of that great voice; the patter of little feet; the slithering of a body on the floor; and always that shrill, beseeching prayer, “Wullie, Wullie, let me to ye!” and, in a scream, “By ----, Kirby, I'll be wi' ye soon!” Jim Mason it was who turned, at length, to the smith and whispered, “Kirby, lad, yo'd best skip it.” The big man obeyed and ran. The stamp-stamp of his feet on the hard road rang above the turmoil. As the long legs vanished round the corner and the sound of the fugitive died away, a panic seized the listening crowd. A woman shrieked; a girl fainted; and in two minutes the street was as naked of men as the steppes of Russia in winter: here a white face at a window; there a door ajar; and peering round a far corner a frightened boy. One man only scorned to run. Alone, James Moore stalked down the centre of the road, slow and calm, Owd Bob trotting at his heels. It was a long half-hour before the door of the inn burst open, and M'Adam came out with a run, flinging the door behind him. He rushed into the middle of the road; his sleeves were rolled at the wrist like a surgeon's; and in his right hand was a black-handled jack-knife. “Noo, by ----!” he cried in a terrible voice, “where is he?” He looked up and down the road, darting his fiery glances everywhere; and his face was whiter than his hair. Then he turned and hunted madly down the whole length of the High, nosing like a weasel in every cranny, stabbing at the air as he went, and screaming, “By ----, Kirby, wait till I get ye!” Chapter XVIII. HOW THE KILLER WAS SINGED No further harm came of the incident; but it served as a healthy object-lesson for the Dalesmen. A coincidence it may have been, but, as a fact, for the fortnight succeeding Kirby's exploit there was a lull in the crimes. There followed, as though to make amends, the seven days still remembered in the Daleland as the Bloody Week.