He took in the scene at a glance. He could not stand by and see injustice done. His dark eyes flashed with indignation as he dashed forward, pulling the line from the hand of Laurence, and tried to disentangle the cruel hook from the unfortunate pigtail. “Who asked you to interfere, you petticoated jackanapes?” bawled Laurence, darting forward, his face as red as his hair, at the same time dealing Jabez a heavy blow on the chest. “My duty!” answered Jabez, stoutly, taking no notice of the sneer at himself. “How could you gentlemen torment a poor old cripple like that?” “He’s a drunken old sot!” cried Barret. “It’s downright cruel!” continued Jabez, as he stood between the jabbering drunkard and his tormentors. “We’re no more cruel than he is! He’s been catching fishes all day. We’ve only given him a taste of his own hook; and we’ll have none of your meddling!” and out went the pugilistic arm of Laurence straight from the shoulder to deal another blow, when it was caught from behind by the bony hand of Ben Travis, bigger and stronger by two year’s growth, whilst the other hand gripped his jacket collar. “So you’re at your cowardly tricks again, Aspinall!” exclaimed he, holding the other as if in a vice. “But if I see you lay another finger on that lad, I’ll report you to Dr. Smith.” “Oh! you’d turn sneak, would you?” sneered Laurence, striving to twist himself loose, and disordering his broad white frill in the endeavour. “I’d think I did the Grammar School a service to turn either you or Barret out of it, I would! Think of you setting on that noble chap who wouldn’t turn tell-tale, though he’ll carry the mark of your boot to his grave with him!” Pointing with outstretched hand to Jabez, who by this time was handing Old Brookes over to the grumbling care of Tabitha, and whose right eyebrow yet showed a red seam, Travis relaxed his hold of Laurence, and he shook himself free. Some warm altercation followed. There was a scowl of sullen defiance on Aspinall’s face, and an evil glance towards Jabez, which Travis observing, with a significant nod he linked his arm in that of the Blue-coat boy, and never left him till he reached his destination, Mr. Hyde’s ancient and picturesque tea-shop in Market-street Lane. CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. THE GENTLEMAN. That afternoon a gentleman who had witnessed part of the foregoing scene from the breeches-maker’s window, whither he had gone for a pair of buckskin riding-gloves—struck by the dauntless manner of Jabez, related what he had seen to his wife, Mrs. Ashton, the stately sister of Mrs. Chadwick; whilst Augusta, their eight-year old daughter, sat on a footstool by her side, hemming a bandana handkerchief for her father, an inveterate snuff-taker—occasionally putting in a word, as only spoiled daughters did in those days. “Mamma, I daresay that’s the little boy Cousin Ellen told me about.”