The men were armed with bludgeons, and three rushed upon Dick at once. But he had no mind to make his bed in Fleet Ditch; hence he met the middle rascal with a violent kick in the belly, and, getting instantly between the other two, shot out both arms simultaneously, clutching at their throats. But now the captain and one other man rushed out from the shadow, and Dick thought all was up. Suddenly there came a cry from the top of the stairs, "Hold off, that man belongs to us!" There followed a flashing of other lanterns, and a scuffle of footsteps down from the top. In another moment, Dick's first assailants were resisting this new force, who had fallen upon them with bludgeons. A sharp, quick fight, in which Dick himself took no part whatever, left the newcomers in possession of the landing and of him, while Captain Delahenty and his gang were carrying their broken heads rapidly down the stairs and off towards Fleet Market. "I thank you for the rescue," said Dick to the stalwart leader of the victorious party, as that leader held up a lantern before Dick's face. "You may call it a rescue, if you like," growled the leader, "but some would rather die in a street brawl than swing at Tyburn. Edward Lawson, otherwise known as Captain Ted," and the man, who had pronounced these names in an official manner, waited as if for Dick to answer to them. "If you mean that you take me for a person of that name," said Dick, "I have to tell you that you are disappointed." "Oho!" was the answer. "That game ain't worthy of you, captain! But if you wish to play it out, you can play it out in Bow Street, and at the Old Bailey after that. I arrest you, Edward Lawson, commonly called Captain Ted, on a charge of highway robbery. Here's the warrant, which God knows I've carried around long enough! You know the usual formality, captain." And at this the bewildered Dick unresistingly saw himself seized by his arms, while another of the constables--for constables these were--adorned him with a pair of handcuffs. He was then marched back to Fleet Street--for it appeared he was no common prisoner, for the nearest roundhouse--and thence, by way of the Strand and other familiar thoroughfares, to a building in Bow Street, celebrated for the fact that Fielding wrote "Tom Jones" therein.