I stood for a moment with my mouth open, gasping for breath. I was anxious, too, about the first fellow whom the scrivener had knocked senseless against the wall. He was slowly opening his eyes and made a move as though he would rise. His hands were behind him. He twisted and pulled to bring them forward. Then it dawned on me that while I was deep in the struggle, the scrivener had tied them securely behind his back. I felt a clap on my shoulder. There stood the scrivener with his eyes shining. His head was darting from side to side like a bird’s. He danced a few steps on the hard floor and to my surprise leaned over and turned a handspring as smoothly as you please. “You’re a grand fighter, lad,” he cried. “A grand fighter.” He held out his hand and grasped mine. “And to think I don’t even know your name.” I took the hint. “It’s Henri,” I said. “Henri La Mar.” “Well, Henri,” he answered, “we’ll get along fine together, you and I.” He looked me over and felt of the muscles of my arm. “The makings of a man,” he muttered. “I’ll make the greatest highwayman of you that ever lived.” I was stopped for an answer. “I’m not so sure that I want to be one,” I replied, but with a smile that I would not anger him. “It’s a dangerous calling.” His face fell in astonishment. He looked for all the world as though he had received a blow. “It’s the only life for a man to live,” he replied. “Ah, if you were to tell the truth, I think you enjoyed the little fight tonight as well as I.” “I’m glad we won,” I said. Then I fell to thinking. After a while I drawled out, “Listen, master scrivener, haven’t I seen you some time before?” He waved me aside and pointed to the two on the floor. “We’ll have to fix them for the night so they’ll do no harm,” he said. “Come, we’ll carry them outside and tie them to the trees.” We took them one by one and dragged them out of the house. We bound them hand and foot and lashed them each to a single tree. When we had finished the scrivener started to whistle a tune. “You’re good at that, master scrivener,” I began again. “Good at what?” he demanded. “—at tying men to trees,” I suggested slyly. “I’m good at everything I touch,” he replied. “Never yet has any man got the better of me.” Then he whistled again louder than before. “You’re good with the bow and arrow, too, aren’t you?” I insisted. “I could knock the eye out of you at a hundred paces,” he declared. “I’ll do it if you say the word.” I laughed. “I don’t want to be killed yet,” I said. Then I continued, “You’re quick on your feet. You’re a shifty wrestler. Are you just as clever tying messages to the haft of an arrow?” It was a sly dig, for I had my suspicions and was curious to learn the truth. His answer was just as evasive as before. “I told you I could do anything,” he replied like a flash, “whether it be tying messages or tying men.”