y," he said softly; "be a man!"

"Ay, lad, I will," said the great fellow, starting up with his eyes wet
with tears. "It isn't the bont plaace made me soft like that, but
what's been said."

He had hardly spoken before there was a peculiar noise heard in the
distance, as if a drove of cattle had escaped and were coming along the
hard road of the fen; but it soon explained itself, for there were
shouts and cries, and five minutes later Mr Marston and his men, nearly
a hundred strong, came running up, ready to assist, and then utter the
fiercest of denunciations against those who had done this thing.

Then there was an ominous silence, as all stood and watched the burning
building till there was nothing but a heap of smouldering wood, which
was scattered and the last sparks quenched.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE TROUBLES CULMINATE.

The fire at the wheelwright's lasted people nearly a month for gossip,
but Hickathrift would not believe it was the work of spirits now.

Then came the news of a fresh outrage. The horses employed in bringing
stones for certain piers to water-gates were shot dead one night.

Next, a fresh attempt was made to blow up the sluice, but failed.

Last of all, the man who was put on to watch was shot dead, and his body
found in the drain.

After this there was a pause, and the work was carried on with sullen
watchfulness and bitter hate. The denunciations against the workers of
the evil were fierce and long.

But in spite of all, the drain progressed slowly and steadily. The
engineer was carrying his advances right into the stronghold of the
fen-men, who bore it all in silence, but struck sharply again and again.

"I wonder who is to get the next taste!" said Tom Tallington one day as
he and Dick were talking.

"No one," said Dick; "so don't talk about it. The people are getting
used to the draining, and father thinks they'll all settle down quietly
now."

"How long is it since that poor fellow was shot?"

"Don't talk about it, I tell you," said Dick angrily. "Three months."

"No."

"Nearly."

Dick was right; nearly three months had gone by since the poor fellow
set to keep watch by Mr Marston had been shot dead, and this
culmination of the horrors of the opposition had apparently startled his
murderers from making farther attempts.

"I tell you what it is," said Tom, "the man who fired that shot and did
all the other mischief has left the country. He dare not stay an