‘But I tell you this woman is out of the common altogether.’ ‘Have you ever tried?’ sneered the warder with the bad stomach. ‘No, but I’ve measured her with my eye.’ ‘The eye is easy deceived as to distances and dimensions. Why, Lord bless you! I’ve seen in a fog a sheep on the moor look as big as a hippopotamus.’ ‘But the landlady is not on the moor nor in a fog,’ persisted Joseph. ‘I bet you half-a-guinea, laid out in drink, that ‘tis as I say.’ ‘Done!’ said both warders. ‘Done!’ said the constables, and turning to their right, they went off to the ‘Hare and Hounds,’ two miles out of their way, to see the fat woman and test her dimensions. Now this change in the destination of the party led to the capture of Martin, and to the wounding of the warder who complained of his stomach. The party reached the little tavern—a poor country inn built where roads crossed—a wretched house, tarred over its stone face as protection against the driving rains. They entered, and the hostess cheerfully consented to having her girth tested. She was accustomed to it. Her fatness was part of her stock-in-trade: it drew customers to the ‘Hare and Hounds’ who otherwise would have gone on to Beer Alston, where was a pretty and pert maid. Whilst the officers were refreshing themselves, and one warder had removed his boot to examine his ankle, the door of the room where they sat was opened and Martin came in, followed by Watt. His eyes were dazzled, as the room was strongly lighted, and he did not at first observe who were eating and drinking there. It was in this lonely inn that he and Walter were staying and believed themselves quite safe. A few miners were the only persons they met there. As Martin stood in the doorway looking at the party, whilst his eyes accustomed themselves to the light, one of the warders started up. ‘That is he! Take him! Our man!’ Instantly all sprang to their feet except Joseph, who was leisurely in all his movements, and the warder with bare foot, without considering fully what he did, threw his boot at Martin’s head. Martin turned at once and ran, and the men dashed out of the inn after him, both warders catching up their guns, and he who was bootless running, forgetful of his ankle, with bare foot. The night was light enough for Martin to be seen, with the boy running beside him, across the moor. The fires were still flickering and glowing; the gorse had been burnt and so no bushes could be utilised as a screen. His only chance of escape was to reach the woods, and he ran for Morwell. But Martin, knowing that there were firearms among his pursuers, dared not run in a direct line; he swerved from side to side, and dodged, to make it difficult for them to take aim. This gave great facilities to the warder who had both boots on, and who was a wiry, long-legged fellow, to gain on Martin. ‘Halt!’ shouted he, ‘halt, or I fire!’