"Come on, boys," Wanless shouted, without waiting to form an array, hardly, indeed, waiting to see who was following him. Clenching his teeth and drawing himself together he dashed up the slope, and singling out Turner, closed with him, and sent his stick flying over the churchyard wall. A moment after Turner himself was rolling amongst the feet of those who had hurried after Wanless. The strife now became general, and for a time all was wild confusion. Gradually, however, the fight, as it were, gathered into knots round the leading men on either side. Big Tom Pemberton had been struck at by a puny little handful of pluck, whose slender frame and pinched face indicated an absence of stamina which ill-fitted him for a struggle with that stalwart bully. He was instantly caught by the throat and bent backwards. Had Wanless not happened to look that way Pemberton might have broken his back, for he proceeded to twist him round and double him over his knee, but Wanless was passing, and swift as lightning, his stick came down on Pemberton's head. The blow staggered him, and made him let go. Pushing him aside, Thomas seized the pale-faced lad and hurried him out of the fight. Turning, he skirted along the edge of the battle to cheer his comrades and help others that might be in distress, dealing a blow here, and tripping up a foe there, and dodging many a stroke aimed at himself. Comparatively scathless, but somewhat blown, he worked his way back to the thick of the struggle, and immediately found himself face to face with the other Pemberton, who had just ended a tough fight with the blacksmith, and like Wanless, was a little spent. He, however, made for Thomas the moment he saw him, and they closed in a fierce wrestle. They tugged and tore at each other for a moment or two, and then went down together, falling on their sides, Wanless, being, if anything, rather undermost. In the fight that followed for supremacy, Pemberton's greater weight, for he was fuller, taller, and stouter than Thomas, seemed to promise him the victory; but with a violent wrench, Wanless so far freed himself as to get his knees planted against Pemberton's body, when, with a final tug, he broke free and sprang to his feet. Bill Pemberton also scrambled up, and they then began hitting at each other wildly with their fists. A kind of ring gathered round them, each side cheering its champion, but the fight was not an equal one. The young farmer was too fat and heavy, and Thomas's random blows punished him fearfully. Blood trickled down his face, and he was gasping for breath before they had fought five minutes, and Thomas finished the contest by rushing at Pemberton and throwing him crashing amongst his followers' feet. They dragged him out of the melee, and, their fury redoubled, returned to make a combined onset on the labourers. Had they been at all equally matched in numbers, the farmers would now probably have driven their