of sight past the bend, and could scarce have been overtaken by the
wearer of the seven league boots. But as we turned into the
straight again, just by Andrew Cruddle, the saddler's, we again
espied the terrible barrel, rolling with many bumps towards the
head of the bridge.

And then I verily believe that my heart for some seconds ceased to
beat, and I am sure that Joe shared my dismay, for he tightened the
grip of his great strong hand upon my puny one until I could have
sworn it was crushed to a pulp. At the bridge head were two
gentlemen, who had to all appearance been engaged in chatting, for
one still sat on the parapet, while the other stood within a foot
or two of him. They were not talking now, but gazing at the barrel
rolling down towards them, and the one who was seated wore the
trace of a smile upon his face.

But the other--Heaven knows what terror seized me when my eyes
lighted upon him: it was none other than Joshua Vetch, the father
of the boy who, as I feared, was being churned to a jelly; and he
stood full in the path of the barrel.

Mr. Vetch, as I have said, was a small but corpulent man, and stood
very upright, with a slight backward inclination, to balance, I
suppose, the exceeding greatness of his rotundity. His countenance
habitually expressed disapproval, and his shaggy brows were drawn
down now in an angry frown. I perceived that he said something to
his companion, and then I saw no more for a while, a mist seeming
to gather before my eyes.

When I regained possession of my faculties, dreading what might