"Beer!" shouted some.

"Water," repeated John. "Nothing but water. I'll have no drunkards
rioting at my master's door."

And, either by chance or design, he let them hear the click of his
pistol. But it was hardly needed. They were all cowed by a mightier
weapon still--the best weapon a man can use--his own firm indomitable
will.

At length all the food we had in the house was consumed. John told
them so; and they believed him. Little enough, indeed, was
sufficient for some of them; wasted with long famine, they turned
sick and faint, and dropped down even with bread in their mouths,
unable to swallow it. Others gorged themselves to the full, and then
lay along the steps, supine as satisfied brutes. Only a few sat and
ate like rational human beings; and there was but one, the little,
shrill-voiced man, who asked me if he might "tak a bit o' bread to
the old wench at home?"

John, hearing, turned, and for the first time noticed me.

"Phineas, it was very wrong of you; but there is no danger now."

No, there was none--not even for Abel Fletcher's son. I stood safe
by John's side, very happy, very proud.

"Well, my men," he said, looking round with a smile, "have you had
enough to eat?"