Roving Jack, The Pirate Hunter — page 169: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ieee ieee sales eee ni tean. | excuand adateea alin “aise hon oauvhicn will swear by heaven,” continued the sea- man, ‘‘never to give auy evidence against you.” ‘And what other evidence could you give ?” re- turned Turpin, fiercely, “None as yet.” ‘““Tsay, my lad,” said Wild ; “I see you are a bit of a sea attorney, and that before half an hour your throat will not require a handkerchief ; join us, or in five minutes you are a dead man.” “T fear he is not to be trusted.” “T, too, have my doubts ; but he’s just the man for us, if ‘he were.”’ “T never made much of such fellows,” said Turpin, while his pistol gave an ominous click with his finger. “Stand by, and we'll have an enemy less in a minute.” “ Not now,” replied the thief-taker to Turpin, as he caught the arm he had raised to fire. “Are you mad ?” said the latter, endeavouring to disengage himself. ‘‘T tell you if he lives he will betray us. He knows us both, I see ke does; let go my arm !” In the struggle that took place between the two confederates, the pistol of Turpin went off in the air. Enraged by the accident, the highwayman, with iatense malevolence, rushed upon Paul Peveril. With the butt-end of the discharged weapon he aimed a deadly blow. The fell intention was anticipated by the sea- man, who, in the meant‘me, had drawn his knife. This he used with such good effect as almost, apparently, to sever the left hand of his adversary at the wrist, and following up the cut with a desperate wound in his breast. “Take that, villain!” cried Paul Peveril, in triumph, “‘ for robbing me in the waggon.” “T told you, Wild, he knew us,” cried Turpin, faint from loss of blood. “Yes, scoundrels, I know you both, and fear you not, though death stares me in the face, and two murderers are at my throat ; I see I must die ; you may kill but you can never cow the British sailor.” Jonathan Wild had been so amazed at the in- trepidity of the gallant defence and attack he had witnessed, that, for the moment, he stood like one paralyzed and powerless, At length his wonder ceased, and unbridled passion worked its way. The thief-taker used his weapon, but he failed to hit his mark. Good fortune had again come to the rescue of the brave tar, the pistol of his dastardly foe only snapped in tke pan. Paul Peveril took advantage of the time used by Wild in repriming. There was an old sea locker under the chamber window. The lid of this the seaman wrenched off just as Turpin, weakened by his wound, attempted to seize him, A tremendous blow from the board felled the highwayman like a stricken ox. Wild, for a second time, pointed his pistol and fired, ofh0ds for a second time, was disappointed in his The lid of the locker, held before Paul Peveril, had proved as armour ; though the ball had split it into a dozen pieces, it had entirely shielded its bearer from any harm, “Now, Dick,” said the foiled thief-taker, ad- dressing ‘Turpin, who had partially recovered from his late injury, ‘‘ brace yourself together for a few ie lal el all hands upon his throat, throttle and through the window with him,” “The window !” cried the desperate seaman ; ‘‘’tis my only chance ; ’tis my last effort, God befriend and aid me,”’ With the quickness of the thought he sprang to the casement. It was fastened. This impediment did not intimidate the captive. Springing upon the chest that stood beneath it, he with his clenched fist shattered the frame, which opened at the blow, Jonathan Wild and Dick Turpin pounced upon him as kites butt upon a carcase. Their efforts were futile, for Paul had thrown himself backwards into the river thats was sluggishly meandering beneath the window’ that had so miraculously afforded him the-means of escape, moments and we shall manage him; CHAPTER LXXXVII. TOM KING ON THE ROAD—THE HIGHWAYMEN’S RENDEZVOUS AT SHOOTER’S HILL—THE EXPECTED TRAVELLER—HOW THE PURSUED GAVE LEG- BAIL TO THE PURSUERS—A PHANTOM RIDE ACROSS BLACKHEATH, LET us now mount the steed and accompany that chevalier sans peur sans reproche, Tom King the highwayman. This eve he appears, as he ever does, the easiest and pleasantest chum going, All know he is the handsomest man about town, and the best fellow on the road. While his ‘stand and deliver” is sure'to arrest attention and produce an effect at once command- ing and irresistible, Look at his symmetrical figure cased ina suit of green velvet set off with silver, ruffles and lace, His pistols in his holsters, His mask on his face. Is he not the envy of the men, the adoration of the women, from the village damsel to the high- born duchess ? He is as superior to the banditti of other countries, a8 the hardy seamen of England are to her worst foes. But we digress, we are pursuing our journey with the illustrious personzge of whom we have made the above remarks, Animated by a kindred enthusiasm, we ascend the steep hill with glorious Tom King. With him we dash through the buatlin g village. Sweep over the desolate heath, And plunge into the eddying stream, without pause—without hindrance—without fatigue. The main road of Kent is reached, and we arrive at Shooter’s Hill. © How beautiful the silent country and valley at its foot appear illumed by the star-spangled ‘canopy of heaven All peace around, slumber, we might almost say death, for with the exception of the solitary horse- man there is‘no sign of life to be seen, “By the mothe rthat bore’me,” said he, “my pals have disappointed me, and I shall have to ‘undertake the job alone ; no matter, I must make the best of a bad bargain and land the swag myself ; the prize is too tempting for me to allow it. to slip through my fingers without a tussle, Let me see, how goes the enemy?” With the words, Tom King pulled out a ponderous COMIN OOO Kn COL Rr C OMG OOOKSHGO! a ROVING JACK, THE PIRATE HUNTER. nn