“Py tam! I shows you what for you lounge around in der dark! Get away from dis! Marsch along on der schtreets!” Without waiting for McKenna to obey him, which he was preparing to do, by drawing on his boot—meanwhile keeping a sharp eye upon the door of the house in which his friend was concealed—the brutal and besotted wretch struck the detective a savage blow on the head with his heavy club. Although it was an entirely unprovoked attack, and the stroke brought blood freely from his forehead and nostrils, the agent gave no answer, and made no effort to retaliate. A second stroke, intended for his head, was parried skillfully with his arm, and he walked away, down the street. The vagabond policeman staggered along a few paces and fell down upon the walk, in a state of drunken unconsciousness. Continuing until he reached the shadow of the Catholic church, McKenna stopped, bound up his head as well as he could, and, then seeing his man emerge from the kitchen, he once more started in pursuit. It seems that the fellow had been merely paying a visit to his sweetheart, as he took the road for the country, and, after following him several miles, the operative dropped the trail and returned to his boarding-house. The next day McKenna was a horrible sight to look upon. With eyes clad in mourning, scalp bound up in plasters, clothing torn and soiled, and limbs bruised, he thought he had learned quite enough of Pottsville and its policemen. And Pottsville had had enough of him, in his character of a Mollie Maguire. It is fair to say that the particular watchman spoken of did not remain on the force many weeks longer, his place having been filled by worthier material. ————●———— CHAPTER XXXIV. MURDER OF B. F. YOST.