Jimmie Bone saw the manoeuvre, and checked his horse, while he tucked his three-cornered hat under his arm for the few seconds required in which to adjust a black mask that covered him to the mouth. Then clapping his spurs he put his horse at the intervening dyke, cleared it and galloped to the next, taking it with an ease that showed consummate horsemanship. In a few seconds he was alongside the dyke in which Merry was plunging, and had pulled from his holster a long pistol. Dr. Syn noted that Mr. Bone rode a black horse, not unlike Gehenna, who had apparently forestalled his stable, and remembering Grinsley's black mount, he told himself that black horses were evidently in fashion amongst the local rogues.
“Now then, what's the game? Come out of it, you water rat,” cried the highwayman to Merry. “Trying to cheat an honest gentleman of the road from his lawful dues, is it? Come on, it's your money or your life, so fork out and sharp's the word.”
“Come now, Mr. Bone, is it likely as though I had money,” whined the terrified Merry.
“Likely, I should say it's certain,” replied the highwayman, “considering as how you ain't the cove to do something for nothing and you was give a gold spade for carryin' a message from certain gents I knows in Rye—aye, a message to yonder old Mother at the cottage, and considerin' you showed her that same guinea and there ain't no inn between there and here where you could spend it, considerin' all that, I says stump up sharp.”
“And not so free with your Mr. Bones,” cut in the highwayman. “We've never been interdooced to my knowledge, and I've no wish to know yer better, although I'll be obliged to be better acquainted with that there guinea. Toss her up.”
“I'm a poor man—” began Merry, reluctantly holding out the guinea piece.
“And I'll be the richer by a guinea,” laughed the highwayman, stretching his hand down and taking the coin reluctantly held out to him. “And now, you stop over this side of the dyke while I deals with these others. Why, sakes alive, if it ain't a parson. Now, why the devil couldn't you have been anything but that, and an old 'un, too.” For while the highwayman had been attending to Merry, Dr. Syn had taken the opportunity of putting on his reading spectacles. “Oh sakes, had you but been a justice of the peace, a well fed lawyer, or even some portly merchant from London city, why then I'd have robbed you willingly. Why, I never yet have robbed a parson. A selfish virtue, sir, but if I did it 'ud be the ruin of all good luck that seems to stand as faithful by me as the horse I ride. Now, the lady is different. I'll relieve you, Miss, of the pretty pearl string about your neck, which I see you have taken pains to hide as far as possible beneath your kerchief. I'll come over for it.”
Jimmie Bone turned his horse and rode in a circle back towards the dyke, which he leapt in style. He was now separated from Merry by the water, but upon the same meadow as the others.
He now rode towards them with his horse pistol presented.
Now although the last thing Charlotte wanted was to lose her precious pearls, it was not fear for their safety that now clutched at her heart, but for the danger towards which Dr. Syn was walking. He certainly looked old and very forlorn, as he limped slowly across the rough grass to meet the highwayman, who reined in his horse and waited.
“No nearer, reverend sir,” warned Mr. Bone. “I should be loath to break my vow against a churchman. Besides, I've no wish to shoot an unarmed man, parson or no.”
Dr. Syn stopped and blinked through his glasses at the black mask. “I have always heard it said of you, Mr. Bone,” he replied in a quavering voice, “that as robbers go, you have at least something honourable about you. I do not exactly agree with your mode of life. Naturally, my profession forbids me to go so far, but I have always been pleased to hear you praised for a certain sporting dare-deviltry which every Englishman admires. And just as you have an aversion to rob or ill-treat me because of my black cloth, so have I an aversion to killing you sitting there so magnificently on that fine animal. Whether you get Miss Cobtree's pearls remains to be seen, but it is quite certain that you will have to fight me first.”
Mr. Bone laughed. “Do you mean a duel, reverend sir? Is it possible that you carry a piece of artillery in one of those long pockets?”
Dr. Syn shook his head, blinked through his spectacles and continued nervously. “No, no. I do not carry a pistol. Though, strange as it may seem to you, I know a good deal about them, and was at one time accounted a reasonable performer. I take it now, Mr. Bone, that the pistol you are presenting at my head at the moment is made more to intimidate than to give an exhibition of accurate shooting.”
“It shoots straight enough, though,” replied Mr. Bone, “as you might find to your cost did you attempt to cross me too far.”
“Might find, eh?” repeated Dr. Syn. “So you allow that there is room for doubt. I take it that you would not feel too secure in using such a weapon for a duel?”
“Since you are so insistent—well, no. I should use one of these in that case.” And Mr. Bone drew from his sash a very fine duelling pistol.
“Ah, that's a weapon,” exclaimed Dr. Syn. “That only demands a sense of direction and a steady squeeze on the trigger. Are you an infallible shot, Mr. Bone?”
“What do you mean?” he demanded. “I can hit a mark nine times out of ten.”
“A mark may be large or small,” replied the vicar, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Make it large enough to see and I'll hit it,” said the highwayman.
“I will,” answered Dr. Syn. “Now, it is a virtue of mine, and of my capacious coat pockets, that I never stir abroad without a good piece of chalk, a length of pack thread and a good sharp knife. Whenever I see a good stick or a pliable twig, I think of my young rascals in the parish who are for ever crying out for whips, cudgels or fishing rods. My knife”—he fumbled in his side pocket and produced it—“is, as you see, a good one. It is strong, it is sharp, and what is so important, it is admirably balanced. It is a knife to throw, Mr. Bone, and like your pistol, shall I boast of it that nine times out of ten it hits the mark. I am beholden to a dreadful rascal for the instruction, a Chinaman Mr. Bone, and it has amused me to keep in practice a hobby that has on several occasions saved my life. Now, before we begin to settle this business concerning Miss Cobtree's pearls, I will lay you a guinea against the one you have appropriated from poor Merry there, that I will throw more accurately than you can shoot. Don't be alarmed, I beg. The crack of a pistol will excite no comment on Romney Marsh. A rabbit, or a water-rat—why the boys will shoot at them, you know. Besides, look around you. As far as the eye can see there is not a human being stirring but ourselves. You would have ample time on that delightful horse to make good your escape. Here's the chalk. I make a mark on this old gate post. So. Now, Mr. Bone, make good your boast.”
Mr. Bone chuckled beneath his mask. “You're a queer cove, ain't you? Well, I'll win your guinea and then take the lady's pearls.”
He thrust the cumbersome horse pistol into the holster and leapt to the ground. “And what distance must we set for this stake, Mr. Parson?”
“You see the chalk mark. It is not large, I admit. Make it whatever you please and take the first shot.”
The highwayman looked at the parson suspiciously. But the sight of so much blinking senility disarmed suspicion. Mr. Bone was a big man, tall, broad and athletic. One blow from his great fist would catapult the frail parson across the dyke. He walked back some yards from the post, followed by his black horse, who in turn was followed by the black-garbed parson.
“I think that far would be accounted a good shot, eh?” asked the highwayman.
“Just as you like,” replied the parson. “The light is good, with the sun behind us.”
The highwayman muttered something to his horse, who obediently knelt down. Mr. Bone also crouched on one knee and steadied his pistol upon the saddle.
“Here you,” he called to Merry. “Get on that mound there and keep a sharp look out. I have no mind to be taken through this folly.”
Merry walked to the mound in question, but he was more interested in the fate of his guinea, and he looked for danger behind the highwayman's back, so that he could watch the shooting.
After a considerable time taken in shuffling himself into a position of comfort, Jimmie Bone took long and deliberate aim. Slowly he squeezed the trigger. The crack of the shot rang out and he got up from his knees.
“I think I have driven in the very centre of your chalkmark,” he chuckled.
“I think you have gone so wide that you have missed the mark entirely,” chuckled the parson. “Aye, post and all.”
“I tell you I can see a mark in the centre of the cross,” exclaimed the marksman.
“I think you'll find that is just a mark in the wood. I fear you've gone wide. You shall have nine more shots to hit it if you wish to make good your word. Nine out of ten, you said.”
“I'll find the bullet in the post first, before I waste more powder,” snapped Mr. Bone, stepping over the prostrate horse and walking to the post.
However, he found that the parson was right in that the centre of the cross was a piece of faulty wood that had not taken the chalk. He began to run his hand slowly down the post, stopping his finger upon every mark in the hope of discovering the passage of his bullet. It annoyed him to fail in front of this parson and the pretty girl.
Charlotte, meanwhile, was watching Dr. Syn and saw what the highwayman had got his back to. Syn's left hand drew the horse pistol from the holster and with a sudden jerking swing flung the knife with full force.
With an oath the highwayman sprang aside, only to find his movement arrested by his coat, for as his hand had lingered on the thick post, the flying knife was driven right through the stuff buckrammed slack of his broad laced cuff.
“I found your sleeve a more tempting mark, Mr. Bone,” said Dr. Syn, advancing to the impaled highwayman with the horse pistol levelled.
“Here's your guinea,” cried the baffled highwayman, “or do you mean to try for the hundred guineas the authorities have put upon my capture?” He tossed the guinea towards the parson, who caught it and threw it to Merry.
“Oh dear, no, Mr. Bone. I only wished to point out that when you levelled this inaccurate piece of artillery at my head, I was not taken at such a disadvantage as you thought. Indeed, I should very much dislike you to flatter yourself upon that point.”
“That pistol's accurate enough with luck,” grumbled Jimmie Bone, “so unless you're out to kill me, keep your finger off the trigger.”
“Have no fear, Mr. Bone,” replied Dr. Syn. “I am well used to pistols, and really could not have missed that post after such preparations. I congratulate you, though, upon the admirable way you have trained your horse. However, we must now deal with Miss Cobtree's pearls, which as I said, you will have to fight to get. Keep your hand away from that knife, Mr. Bone, for a moment. Come across the water, Mr. Merry. You will act for Mr. Bone, no doubt, while Miss Cobtree will act for me. This shall be all in order, Mr. Bone. A fair fight. And I assure you the pearls are worth the fighting for. Several thousands of pounds they would fetch in the London market. But when I tell you that they were given to Miss Cobtree for her birthday to-day, perhaps your sense of fairness will make you withdraw your threat and ride away in peace.”
“Miss Cobtree, eh?” repeated Mr. Bone. “She'd be the daughter of Cobtree the magistrate, and ain't he the cove what has put a hundred guineas round my neck? It seems to me then not unfair for me to take several thousand guineas from his daughter's neck.”
“As you please, Mr. Bone, and always supposing you can make good your word, which I am at liberty to doubt after the failure of your former boast. Mr. Merry, you will pluck out my knife there, while I help Miss Cobtree to dismount.”
He backed towards the horses, still keeping the highwayman covered with the pistol, while Merry splashed his way across the dyke to get the knife.
Charlotte leaned from her horse with one arm about the vicar's shoulder, and as he lifted her to the ground she whispered: “Why not send him packing? You have the pistol and I the pearls.”
“Because I have the wish to show you that you have not given your love to a weakling, my dear.”
She was about to speak in answer when Merry, who had pulled out the knife from the post and thereby released Mr. Bone's cuff, suddenly sprang at the highwayman with the knife raised.
With a savage curse Mr. Bone ducked, caught Merry with one arm round the waist and with the other hand twisted the wrist till the knife dropped. He then drew back, and with a sledge-hammer blow knocked Merry backwards into the water.
“That was just, Mr. Bone. He deserved it for his treachery,” said Dr. Syn.
“Aye, he was tempted by that hundred pounds alive or dead that old Cobtree has put up. Well, he ain't earned it yet, I think. And now what, Master Parson?”
“You have a good punch, I see, which I shall do well to avoid,” chuckled Dr. Syn. “I remember now that you were something of a heavyweight before you took to the road. You knocked out the Camberwell Smasher at Tunbridge Fair, if I recollect.”
“That's it, and my advice to you is not to tempt me to deal with you as I dealt with him,” laughed Mr. Bone. “I'd rather have them pearls without a fight and ride off peaceful.”
“Possibly, but oh no,” laughed the doctor. “At least, I shall be very surprised if you do ride off with the pearls. But I'll take off my glasses and my coat. I should suggest you take off your riding coat.”
“I'll keep it on,” replied the highwayman. “When I have finished with you, and let us hope the damage done will not affect your preaching, I shall take the pearls and ride away before you raise the alarm.”
“Oh, but there is to be no alarm, I assure you,” corrected the parson. “This is a friendly bout, I hope, and I wish you would not boast so of the pearls.” Dr. Syn folded his coat and laid it tidily on the grass. “Well, if you will not remove your coat, at least take off your mask. It gives me so much to aim at.”
“Do you really mean that we are to fight with fists?” asked the amazed highwayman, seeing that the parson was calmly rolling up his shirt-sleeves, and opening and shutting his hands as he blinked at them.
“But, my dear Mr. Bone, you see I have got ready. We will fight to a finish. A knock-out and with fists. The usual ten to be counted. Slowly, my dear Charlotte.”
“Well, it is not my habit to linger too long in one spot,” said the highwayman. “True, there's no one visible at the moment likely to cause me trouble, but away yonder towards Dymchurch, there's a clump of trees behind which one cannot see, and I've been warned that the Dragoons are out. So come along, my gallant game-cock and let us hope your preaching will be better than your fighting.”
“Oh, I hope it is,” replied Dr. Syn devoutly, taking a few steps forward and then awaiting attack in a somewhat awkward attitude of defence.
“It will be no disgrace to say you've been worsted by Gentleman James,” laughed Bone, advancing.
“You are sure you would not prefer to remove your mask?” asked the waiting parson timidly.
“I only removes it amongst relations, and they are all dead. I have no wish to give away a description of my beauty.”
“Oh, but your heavy boots and spurs,” pleaded Dr. Syn.
“Used to 'em. I notice you keep on your buckled shoes. I likes fighting shod, like you.”
Mr. Bone suddenly rushed. Dr. Syn stood his ground, and though Charlotte was terrified at the tornado attack of the great highwayman, she was surprised to see him stagger back with his hand on his jaw. Dr. Syn had apparently parried the sledgehammer blows, and struck once, but the stroke got home. It enraged the highwayman, for he leapt forward again and clinched. Dr. Syn seemed mildly surprised at this form of attack. His arms were tied by the great bulk of his antagonist. He seemed to have no space in which to hit. For the moment it seemed that Mr. Bone had got it all his own way, and wishing to finish the comedy and pay the parson back with interest for the lucky blow on his chin, he tried to hold the parson with his left arm while withdrawing his right for a smash-out blow.
What followed was too quick for Charlotte to understand. But the highwayman missed his blow and Syn was clear of that crushing left arm. His knuckles had managed to inflict a murderous jab into Bone's ribs, and as the highwayman's fist whistled past his side-jerked head, up came the parson's left and reached the same spot on the jaw. Mr. Bone cried out in surprise and pain, and recovering his balance, followed up Dr. Syn, who had leapt clear. But unwilling to submit to another of those grim clinches, the parson played for defence, parrying the mighty blows with apparent coolness, but retreating steadily round and round before the infuriated rushes.
At every attack it seemed that the slim figure of the parson must be overwhelmed, and yet his face remained untouched, and even his wig, which he had not removed, was still sitting tidy and tight upon his head, and as blow after blow was rained at him, the parson's face was ever guarded and the blows turned aside.
From a distance it would have seemed that the highwayman was getting it all his own way, because of the other's persistent retreats. After each attack, he leaped back to avoid another clinch.
Mr. Bone felt the blood trickling down his neck and this infuriated him. He now attacked with lower blows, and at last landed a murderous stroke into the parson's ribs. Dr. Syn leapt back, pressing his hand against the spot and drawing in his breath with an audible hiss. It may have been a sporting instinct on the part of Mr. Bone to let the parson recover himself, or it may have been that he took a few seconds to recover himself for a further effort to drive home that advantage, but it is certain that the big man held back for a few definite seconds, breathing hard. Dr. Syn used the pause first by calmly lifting his wig from his head and throwing it clear away upon the grass. He then appeared to Charlotte and Merry to be using his brain and taking the measure of Bone's fighting qualities. The highwayman was just a strong, straight-forward hitter, depending on his blows to reach their objective, and the doctor realised that should this happen, the fight might well be over, for the blows were bone-smashers. He knew, therefore, that his best policy was to fight as he had been doing, on the defensive and at all costs to keep clear till he had worn down his antagonist's patience and strength.
It so happened, however, that the pause had placed Dr. Syn facing the distant clump of Dymchurch trees, and since the highwayman had his back to them, he did not see what the parson did—for between the trees the setting sun was flashing upon the brass helmets and breast-plates of the Dragoons.
Now Dr. Syn had only to mention this fact to Mr. Bone to terminate the fight. What was more to the point, he could finish the fight as victor and by picking up the pistol which he had laid beneath his coat, he could order Mr. Bone to mount without the pearls and to ride for his life.
Against this was his desire to finish the fight under Charlotte's eyes, and it was this that made him risk Mr. Bone's safety.
Once more he threw himself into an attitude of self-defence. Once more Mr. Bone advanced, preparing to launch himself in a tornado attack. But, instead, he was met in full career by a second tornado. Dr. Syn had sprung into the attack like a mad hurricane, and Mr. Bone got a taste of his own smashing method before he was aware that such a thing existed. Back he was driven with well-landed blows steadily back towards the dyke.
“Mind the water, man,” cried Dr. Syn, after sending him reeling to the very bank.
But the highwayman was game. He rushed again, only to be met by the parson's counter rush. Down went Mr. Bone, blinded with blood that soaked down through his silk mask.
Charlotte forgot to count. Dr. Syn had to do it, slowly, with one eye on the giant upon the turf and the other towards the Dragoons.
On the ninth count, however, Mr. Bone once more showed fight. Leaping to his feet, he rushed the parson. A quick sidestep and a lightning left hook to the jaw followed almost instantaneously by a punishing to the ribs with his right, left Dr. Syn standing the victor, for Mr. Bone uttered a sigh of pain, sank on his knees and then collapsed.
