"_This_ is my authority," cried Widdrington, drawing his sword.

"We'll soon prove whether that's strong enough," replied Hall, jumping
from his horse and also drawing his weapon. There was, as it chanced,
close to the lane in which the two had been wrangling, a bit of nice
level ground covered with short, crisp turf, and to this Hall quickly
made his way, followed by Widdrington and by a crowd of people who had
run up from the fair, attracted by the quarrel. A very few minutes
sufficed to prove that Widdrington's "authority" was _not_ strong
enough. He fought well enough for a time, it is true, and his opponent
had need of all the skill he could command, but within five minutes Hall
had caught Widdrington's point in the big basket hilt of his sword, and
with a sudden jerk had sent the weapon flying, leaving the disarmed man
entirely at his mercy. That was enough to satisfy Hall, who was too much
of a man to push his advantage further. But it by no means satisfied the
surrounding crowd of country people. By them these Widdringtons had long
been feared and detested, and only the belief in the minds of those
simple country folk that, in some mysterious way beyond their ken, the
law was on the side of their oppressors, had on more than one occasion
prevented an outbreak of popular fury. Here, now, was one of the hated
brood, proven to be in the wrong, and with no authority to arrest beyond
that bestowed by bluster and brute force. The air grew thick with groans
and savage threats, and a clod flung by a boy gave the mob a lead. In an
instant sticks and stones began to fly. Widdrington was unable to reach
his sword or to get to his horse; there was nothing for it but to take
to his heels, pursued by a crowd thirsting for his blood. That was the
last of the oppression of the Widdringtons; their horrible traffic in
human beings was ended, and none of them ever again dared show their
faces in that part of the country.