“No,” answered Sir John. “And—look’ee, fellow, next time you desire to laugh, turn away—your gaping mouth offends me!” “Why—why, damme!” stammered Mr. Oxham, staring. “Offend you, is it? Ecod, I’ll do more than offend ye if ye doan’t tak’ yourself off, and sharp’s the word!” “Aha!” exclaimed Sir John. “The vulgar rogue actually dares to threaten!” “Do ye tak’ yourself out o’ my way or doan’t ye?” shouted Mr. Oxham, brandishing his whip. “I do not!” answered Sir John, and with a motion of slender hands, lifted the flaps of his holsters, discovering the butts of two serviceable pistols at his saddle. “Ho—murder, is it?” exclaimed Mr. Oxham, falling back a step. “Bob, should it be necessary, you will leave the shooting to me.” “I prefer my riding-crop, sir!” answered the Corporal happily. “And now,” continued Sir John, his eyes very quick and watchful, “Mr. Oxham, Mr. Sturton and gentlemen all, listen to me! I will not permit Mr. Potter to be apprehended in this outrageous fashion for the following cogent and excellent reasons, namely: first, because ’tis against the law; second, because I myself share Mr. Potter’s very natural aversion to my Lord Sayle’s company; and, thirdly, because I regard Mr. Potter in the light of a friend and, as a Man o’ Sentiment, I feel the bonds of friendship very sacred.... How say ye, gentlemen?” “You’m right, sir! Right you be!” cried a voice. “Indeed, we are all with you!” added a second voice, and Mr. Pym, the painter, appeared, hatless and with a long-hafted prawning-net in his hand. “The man Sayle has tyrannised hereabouts too long!” “Aye, that ’e ’ave! That ’e ’ave!” cried others, and the crowd surged nearer with an angry muttering, insomuch that Mr. Oxham flourished his whip and scowled, while his satellites, for all their brawn, began to grow uneasy. “At him, Oxham!” cried Mr. Sturton. “Pull him from his horse; he won’t dare to shoot!” “Try!” quoth Sir John. “Aye, come on, if ye will!” added Mr. Pym, brandishing his heavy-hafted net. Here was a moment’s silence, and then Mr. Potter spoke: “Thank ye heartily, friends an’ neighbours—and you most of arl, Mus’ Derwent, sir, but it bean’t no manner o’ good a-muckin’ yourself up arl-along-on-account-of poor Potter’s affairs, not nohow. There bean’t no man can’t nowise help poor Potter except Potter himself, I rackon, and, sir—Potter be agoin’ to try!” As he uttered the last word Mr. Potter leapt, brawny fist a-swing with behind it all the weight, strength and impetus of powerful body; and, felled by that resistless blow, the large Mr. Oxham, for all his size, rolled helpless upon the roadway, while over his prostrate form leapt the fugitive and disappeared through the open doorway of ‘The Market Cross Inn,’ but with Sturton and divers others of Oxham’s men close upon his heels.