or mistaking the movement of the proprietor's coat-tail for a challenge,
pitched into him incontinently. "_Plenum sed_," as the Oxonions say. An
attack from behind, so sudden and unexpected, threw the squire sprawling
on his face into a stone pile.

Oh, never was the thunder's jar,
The red tornado's wasting wing,
Or all the elemental war,

like the fury of Squire Hardy on that occasion.

He recovered his feet with the agility of a boy, his nose bleeding and a
stone in each hand. The timid flock looked all aghast, while the
audacious offender, so far from having shown any disposition to skulk,
stood shaking his head and threatening, as if he had a mind to follow up
the dastardly attack. The squire let fly one stone, which grazed the
villain's head and killed a lamb. With the other he crippled a favorite
ewe. The ram still showed fight, and the vengeful proprietor would
probably have soon decimated his flock had not Porte Crayon (who had
been squirrel-shooting) made his appearance in time to save them.

"Quick, quick! young man--your gun; let me shoot the cursed brute on the
spot."

The squire was frantic with rage, the cause of which our hero, having
seen something of the affray, easily divined. He was unwilling, however,
to trust his hair-triggered piece in the hands of his excited host.

"By your leave, Squire, and by your orders, I'll do the shooting myself.
Which of them was it?"