At that time of night nobody would be on the road, and help was not likely to drop from Heaven. He had only himself to look to. He thought over the manifold tricks he had seen in the wrestling ring, thought swiftly and desperately, hit out with his left and followed with an upward kick of his right foot—Devon style. His fist missed as he expected, but his boot caught the thief a tip under the knee cap as he side-stepped. The man doubled up, and John flung himself at him. The footpad butted him in the pit of the stomach with his head and skipped clear, shouting savagely in Romany, but limping, limping! John did not know the language, but it told him there was a companion to reckon with—a fresh man; the struggle was hopeless. Nevertheless he turned and ran for the club. He was not fast enough, not fast enough by half; three yards from the ditch the lamed thief was on him. John heard the quick hop-skip of feet behind him and dropped on one knee as the man sprang for his back. The footpad, not expecting the drop, went too high; he landed across John’s shoulders, one arm dropping across the farmer’s chest. In a flash John had him by the wrist and jerked upright, at the same time dragging down on the wrist; it was an adaptation of the Cornish master-throw, “the flying mare.” The man went over John’s shoulders like a rocket, made a wonderful effort to save himself by a back somersault, but the tug on his wrist was too much, and he crashed on his side in the road. John kicked him on the head till he lay still and, picking up the club, whirled to face the next comer. Nobody came on. John was perplexed. To whom had the fellow been shouting if not to a confederate? Perhaps the cur had taken fright and was skulking in the gorse. Very well; he would drub him out. He was flushed with victory and had the club in his hands now. He was stepping towards the furze when he heard a slight scrunching sound to his left, and, turning, saw a dark figure squatting on the bank at the roadside. John stood still, breathing hard, his cudgel ready. The mysterious figure did not stir. John stepped nearer, brandishing his club. Still the figure made no move. John stepped nearer yet, and at that moment the moon broke clear of a mesh of clouds, flooding the road with ghostly light, and John, to his astonishment, saw that the confederate was a girl, a girl in a tattered cloak and tarnished tumbler finery, munching a turnip. Strolling acrobats! That explained the man’s uncanny agility. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Nothing, sir,” said the girl, chewing a lump of the root. “I’ll have him hung and you transported for this,” John thundered. “I did you no harm,” said the girl calmly. That was true enough. John wondered why she had not come to the assistance of her man; tribe law was strong with these outcasts, he understood. He asked her. The girl shrugged her shoulders. “He beat me yesterday. I wanted to see him beat. You done it. Good!”