er.

I will say this for them, that they intended to do him no harm;
their lunges were sportive and not in earnest; but diverting as the
sport was to them, it was the very contrary to the old man, whose
cries proclaimed that he thought his last hour was come.

All this happened in the space of a few moments. I was unwilling to
leave old Ben to the mercy of his tormentors while I ran for
assistance, as I was intending; yet it was clear I could do nothing
alone.

"John Kynaston," thinks I, "lives only a couple of hundred yards
away: he and I together might account for the ruffians."

I was just turning to make my way to Kynaston's house, when a cry
of pain from the old man drove out all considerations of prudence.
In dodging one of that ring of steel points it would appear that he
had stumbled full upon another, and the weapon, by accident or
otherwise, had pierced his arm. My blood was up; I clean forgot my
design of running for help. I had no weapon with me, but, hastily
scanning the dim-lit street for a something to wield, my foot
kicked an object in the gutter. In a trice I had seized it in both
hands, barely conscious of its weight. Then I ran with it the few
yards that separated me from the scuffle, and, lifting my weapon
above my head, hurled it at the nearest of the group. There was a
sound of fury from the fellow at whom I had aimed, and from the two
beyond him--a sound muffled and all but inarticulate, for the
missile which had fallen like a bolt among them was a large wooden
bin filled with household refuse, and placed in the gutter for the
coming of the early morning scavenger.

Chapter 4: Captain John Benbow.

Our Mohocks suffered some discomfort, I fear, as the contents of
the bin hurtled upon them. Household refuse hath, to be sure, no
sweetness of savor; and the shower of bones, eggshells, cabbage
stalks, potato parings, rinds of bacon, and what not, with a
plentiful admixture of white wood ash, served to stay their
activity in deeds, though I must own it did but enhance the fury of
their tongues. But the diversion gave me a breathing space in which
I drew old Ben within the shadow of a doorway and took his staff
from his fainting hands--not without resistance on his part, for
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