the mettlesome old fellow refused to yield up his insignia until I
brought my face within an inch of his dim eyes, and he recognized
me for a friend.

"Spring your rattle, man!" I cried, and then to the din of curses
and roars for vengeance there was added the sharp crackle of his
alarm signal.

By this time the leaders of the rioters had rubbed the dust from
their eyes and came towards me, the foremost of them, Cyrus Vetch,
shouting to his comrades to spit me like a toad. He had recognized
me, and sprang towards the doorway where I stood with staff aslant,
the trembling watchman still whirling his rattle behind. Mad with
rage he cut at me with his sword, which bit deep into the staff, by
that very fact becoming for a brief moment useless.

Before Vetch could recover his weapon, I had withdrawn mine, and
lunging fair upon him, I dealt him a thrust that sent him spinning
halfway across the street. But I was now beset by his comrades, who
made at me from both sides of the porch, but for whose shelter I
should in all likelihood have been overborne.

They had some sense of fair play, however. They returned their
swords to the scabbards, and were for trusting to their fists
alone. I contrived to give one of them a smart tap on the crown
before they came to close quarters; but ere I could recover myself
they were upon me, the staff was wrenched from my grasp, and I was
as hard put to it as a stag bayed by hounds. I made what play I
could with my fists, and got home at least one blow for two; but
the odds were too heavy against me, and when at length a fellow as