Two of them darted across the road, and bolted in front of the rolling figure; another ran swiftly behind, and embraced the singer with much tenderness round the neck. Before Philip had had time to take in the situation completely, the four figures formed one struggling heap upon the pavement, with the central one—the singer, but roaring out quite another tune now—making lively play with fists and feet. Philip Chater rushed in to the rescue; seized one assailant—dragged him to his feet—preparatory to immediately knocking him off them; and looked round to see how the battle was progressing. The man who had been attacked—and whose musical tendencies were stronger, apparently, than any alarm he might reasonably be expected to feel—had collared one of his opponents round the neck, in return for the delicate attention bestowed upon himself, and was hammering away lustily at him, making the blows keep time to the tune of “The Death of Nelson,” the first bars of which he solemnly chanted, while he performed his pleasing duty. The man who had been so unexpectedly knocked down had got to his feet, and, together with the third member of the gang, had bolted away; presently the stranger, tiring of his exercise, and having got, perhaps, as far through the tune as memory served him, released his victim’s head, although still keeping a tight hold on his collar. Philip, being close beside him when he did this, saw revealed, in the features of this footpad of the streets, the Shady ’un. “Now—you bloomin’ pirate!” exclaimed the musical one, shaking his man until it seemed as though he must shake him altogether out of his dilapidated clothes—“wot d’yer mean by runnin’ a decent craft down like that, in strange waters—eh? An’ to land a man like that, w’en ’e’s a bit water-logged—leastways, we’ll call it water-logged, for the sake of argyment. If it ’adn’t ’ave been for this ’ere gent, I don’t know—” Here the man, turning for a moment towards Philip, stopped in amazement, and almost let his victim go. The Shady ’un, too, was regarding Philip curiously. “Look ’ere, Mr. Chater,” began the Shady ’un, with a whine—“you’ll swear as ’ow I’m a ’ard workin’ man, as just stepped forward for to ’elp this gen’leman, as was set on by two thieves—won’t yer, Mr. Chater?” “’Ere—’old ’ard,” broke in the man who held him. “Who the dooce are you a callin’ ‘Mr. Chater’? I’d ’ave you know that this ’ere gent is a mess-mate o’ mine—an’ ’is name ain’t Chater at all; it’s Crowdy—good ole Phil Crowdy—if so be as ’e’ll excuse the liberty I takes. You an’ yer bloomin’ Chater! W’y—they’ll be a callin’ yer the Dook o’ Wellin’ton nex’, Phil.” As he spoke, he stretched out his disengaged hand, and grasped that of Philip Chater.