There was a fierce murmur, and then a pause. The great ruffian half crouched upon the counter, crossing his eyes in his fear, and squinting crookedly down the pistol barrel, which was within a foot of his head. "I say, gentlemen and customers, that Mr Thickens here is waiting to pay over all demands on Dixons' Bank." "Hear, hear!" cried the farmer who had before spoken. "But there are twenty or thirty dirty ruffians among you, and people who do not bank with us, and I must ask you to turn them out." There was a fierce murmur here, and Sir Gordon's voice rose again high and clear. "Mr Trampleasure, you will find the loaded firearms ready in the upper room. Go up, sir, and without hesitation shoot down the first scoundrel who dares to throw a stone at the bank." "Yes, Sir Gordon," said Trampleasure, who dared not have fired a piece to save his life, but who gladly beat a retreat to the first-floor window, where he stood with one short blunderbuss in his hand, and Mrs Trampleasure with the other. "Now, gentlemen," cried Sir Gordon, "I am waiting for you to clear the bank." There was another fierce growl at this; but the mottled-faced farmer, who had ridden in on his stout cob, and who carried a hunting crop with an old-fashioned iron hammer head, spat in his fist, and turned the handle-- "Now, neighbours and friends as is customers!" he roared in a stentorian voice, "I'm ready when you are." As he spoke he caught the man half on the counter by the collar, and dragged him off. "Here, keep your hands off me!" "Yow want to fight, yow'd--" "Yah! hah!" Then a scuffling and confused growl, and one or two appeals to sticks and fists; but in five minutes every man not known as a customer of the bank was outside, and the farmers gave a cheer, which was answered by a yell from the increasing mob, a couple of dozen of whom had stooped for stones and began to flourish sticks. But the stout farmer, who was on the steps between the two pillars that flanked the entrance, put his hand to his mouth, as if about to give a view halloo! "Look out for the bloonder-boosh, my lads." And then, turning his head up to the window where Mr Trampleasure stood, weapon in hand, "Tak' a good aim on the front, and gie it 'em--whang! Mr Trampleasure, sir. Thee'll scatter the sloogs fine." Not a stone was thrown, and by this time James Thickens was busy at work cancelling with his quill pen, and counting and weighing out gold. He never offered one of Dixons' notes: silver and gold, current coin of the realm, was all he passed over the counter, and though the customers pressed and hurried to get their cheques or notes changed, Thickens retained his coolness and went on. At the end of a quarter of an hour the excitement was subsiding, but the bank was still full of farmers and tradespeople, the big burly man with the hunting crop being still by the counter unpaid.