The good folks who dwelt in Waverdale and the regions round about, were thrown into a good deal of consternation by reason of a series of daring burglaries and highway robberies with violence, which had been committed during the later autumn days. Isolated farmhouses and solitary inns had been forced open and ransacked, inducing a general feeling of alarm. Two or three men, with crape over their faces and armed with knife and pistol, had been seen by sundry wayfarers. Farmers and others, returning late from Kesterton Market, were suddenly set upon, and not only robbed, but cruelly maltreated. Under these circumstances it can scarcely be wondered at, that our good friend, the Rev. Theophilus Clayton, was now and then a little nervous during his late rides from those country appointments over moor and wold where the mysterious footpads plied their cruel and dishonest trade. On one occasion the worthy minister was returning home from Bexton, a distance of nine miles from Kesterton. Just as he reached the brow of a hill, a strong-looking fellow, with villainous features, called out to him, “How far is it to Kesterton?” Neither voice nor face was calculated to soothe the good pastor’s nerves, for, though he was no coward, he could not help being influenced by the current panic of the district. “A little over five miles,” he answered. At that moment the fellow made a dash at the horse’s bridle, but Mr. Clayton was on the alert, he gave Jack a smart stroke with his whip, regardless of all equine proverbs about “down hill, bear me,” and Jack dashed off at a sharp trot down the steep hill. The robber was thrown upon his face, and then a volley of oaths and curses was followed by the sharp crack of a pistol; but either through faulty aim or distance gained, neither Jack nor the driver was any the worse for that. The hill was long and steep, and poor Jack was going at a dangerous rate. The gig swung from side to side. In vain the occupant tightened the reins. Circuit horses are not famous for being very sound at the knees, thanks to bungling drivers, and just at the foot of the hill Jack stumbled and fell. A shaft of the gig was broken, Mr. Clayton was thrown out, landed in most uncomfortable fashion head foremost on the grass-clad roadside, and lay for a brief moment half-stunned by his fall.