“Hallo! what’s this?” said a voice. The minister thinking the angry robber was at hand, freed himself from the bondage of the now much-battered hat which had been forced over his face and had doubtless done much to save him from serious injury. By his side knelt no other than Black Morris, who helped him to sit upright on the bank, and as the preacher complained of his head, examined his temple, and found a sharp cut from which the blood was flowing pretty freely. Mr. Clayton pulled out his handkerchief, and Black Morris proceeded to bind it round his head. In doing so, however, the clear bright moonlight fell on a still red and ugly-looking scar on the cheek below. “Hallo!” said Morris; “you have had a nasty cut before this.” “Yes,” said Mr. Clayton, who found himself not seriously the worse for his mishap. “I’ll tell you directly how it was done. But will you kindly help me to put my gig to rights? I fancy I heard a smash.” The damage was confined to the splintered shaft, if we except an abrasion on each knee of poor old Jack, who having recovered his feet, stood, as a circuit horse is pretty sure to do, with no thought of running away. As for the rub on his knees, why he was used to that sort of thing, as eels are to skinning, and doubtless he looked upon it as the indispensable badge of his enlistment in the Church militant. Black Morris drew from his capacious pockets, which were often filled with the produce of midnight raid in copse and glen, a supply of stout cord, and bound the lancewood limb so firmly as to ensure its trustworthiness for the remainder of the journey. “I’m sincerely obliged to you,” said Mr. Clayton, warmly; “I don’t know what I should have done without your help. If you are going to Kesterton I shall be glad to give you a ride.” The proposal was timely, and so the Methodist preacher and the poacher rode off in an honest Methodist gig, carrying, also, it is to be feared, contraband game in the secret recesses of Black Morris’s velveteen jacket. “What made you drive so fast down hill?” said Black Morris, as they bowled rapidly along the high road, for the mishap appeared to have electrified Jack into a renewal of his youth. “Why,” said Mr. Clayton, “I was attacked by a highwayman at the top of the hill, and as he made a dash at the reins, I drove off as hard as we could go. The fellow was knocked down, I think, at any rate he was in a great rage, for he swore loudly, and sent a bullet after us, but luckily without effect.” “What sort of a fellow was he?” said Morris. “Oh! a big, broad-shouldered man, with no whiskers and as villainous a face as I have ever seen.” “Hey, he’s a rum un is Bi---- I mean there are rum fellows about just now.” Mr. Clayton noticed the slip of the tongue, but prudently changed the subject.