By a fair fight for a descendant of the cavaliers, the Colonel meant one of two things: either a six-barrelled revolver against an unarmed antagonist, or an ambush in which the aforesaid descendant could hit, but be secure against being hit in return. One of the Colonel’s maxims was, “Never fire unless you can take your man at a disadvantage.” His sire having been unluckily cast in a petty lawsuit, “by a low-born Yankee judge, sir,” Colonel Delancy Hyde drifted off to the Southwest, and gradually emerged into the special vocation for which the unfortunate habits of life, which the Southern system had driven him to, seemed to qualify him. He became a sort of agent for the recovery of runaway slaves, and in this capacity had the freedom of the different plantations, and was frequently applied to for help by bereaved masters. Every man is said to have his specialty: the Colonel had at last found _his_. In the survey which Peculiar took of the assemblage in Charlton’s office, he saw that Charlton himself was separated from the rest in being behind a small semicircular counter, an old piece of furniture, bought cheap at a street auction. By getting in the lawyer’s place the negro would have a sort of barrier, protecting him in front and on two sides against his assailants. Behind him would be the stove. Stealthily throwing open the closet-door he glided out, and before any one could intercept him, he had fastened Charlton’s arms in a noose, and was standing over him with upraised knife. So rapid, so sudden, so unexpected had been the movement, that it was all completed before even an exclamation was uttered. The first one to break the silence was Charlton, who in a paroxysm of terror cried out, “Mercy! Save me, officers! save me!” Iverson, one of the policemen, started forward and drew a revolver; but Peek made a shield of the body of the lawyer, who now found himself threatened with a pistol on one side and a knife on the other, much to his mortal dismay. “Put down your pistol, Iverson!” he stammered. “Don’t attempt to do anything, any of you. This g-g-gentleman doesn’t mean to do any harm. He will listen to reason. The gentleman will listen to reason.” “Gentleman be damned!” exclaimed Colonel Delancy Hyde. “Officer, put down your pistol. This piece of property mustn’t be damaged. I’m responsible for it. Peek, you imperdent black cuss, drop that rib-tickler,—drop it right smart, or yer’ll ketch hell.” The Colonel advanced, and Peek brought down his knife so as to inflict on Charlton’s shoulder a gentle puncture, which drew from him a cry of pain, followed by the exclamation, in trembling tones: “Keep off, keep off, Colonel! Peek doesn’t mean any harm.” Iverson made an attempt to get in the negro’s rear, but a shriek of remonstrance from Charlton drove the officer back.