“I’ll swear I never saw you in all—“ He never finished those words. His captor was on him and had him fast. In less time than it takes to describe, the handcuffs were locked upon his wrists, and, taking him up in his arms, Power fairly lifted him off the ground and carried him into the chaise. Without loosing his hold he took his seat too, gave reins to the horse, and started off at a hand gallop down the lane. He had the reins in one hand, the other arm tightly bound round Howard’s neck, and the hand used as far as it was possible as a gag. But though it was possible to hold this captive tight, it was not so easy to keep him silent. Before they had gone a dozen yards Howard had managed to send off more than one yell of distress, as a signal to his friends in the field. The sight of the galloping horse, the burly figure of the driver, and the lad crouching close by his side—all three betrayed the plot. Almost simultaneously several hundred men dropped work and gave chase—some down the lane, others trying to head the trap at the junction with the high road. Power had his hands full: in one, a struggling criminal, desperate, ready to fling himself out of the chaise at any risk; in the other a bunch of reins and a whip. However, he had the start and advantage of his pursuers. Once only was his escape in doubt: on reaching the road, the horse tried to turn sharp to the left, back to his stable at West Drayton, instead of to the right to Uxbridge. With a jerk that almost upset the trap, Power turned the horse in the right direction, and half an hour afterwards had left his pursuers miles behind, and was safe at the police station. Within forty-eight hours of his escape Punch Howard was back in a Millbank cell, and Mr. Power was handsomely rewarded for the remarkable pluck and energy he had displayed. A similar feat to Punch Howard’s was accomplished by a man named Jack Robinson, at Dartmoor. This man had long pretended to be weak-minded, and had thus put his keepers off their guard. He was in the habit of exercising himself shoeless and bare-headed, and wearing an old hat without a brim. In his bosom he carried generally a few tame rats, which issued forth now and then to walk over his arms and shoulders, and to lick his hands and face. A frequent joke with Robinson was to tell the chaplain that he had put his feet too far through his trousers—which caused infinite amusement always to his convict audience. Jack, however, was fond of foretelling that he meant to make April fools of every one—and so in effect he did. One morning he had flown, and with him two companions. He had cut through the bars of his cell by some artful contrivance; which still remains a mystery to this day. Some think he used a watchspring, others some chemical process. He was not recaptured, but later was re-convicted for stealing a railway rug. [Illustration: _Prisoners Going to Work at Dartmoor_