_"Cheerily,
chaps, cheerily!"_
A crack from the cottage, the crack of doom.
The leading ruffian, a lumbering great horse-faced fellow, clapped his
hand to his side.
_"What's that?"_ he snapped.
_"That's death!"_ came a solemn voice from across the green.
The man bowed his head as though in acknowledgement.
_"I got it,"_ he said, and fell like a falling tower.
His fellows wavered. This sudden arrow from the quiver of the Great
Bowman, so unexpected expected, pierced the hearts of all.
Into them, toppling, bowled Knapp like a cannon-ball.
"_Ow,_ dear! _Ow's_ that? _Ow,_ my pore face!"
The chirpy Cockney voice popped out from the thick of them like a cork
from a bottle, and a smack from a sledge-hammer fist punctuated each
ow.
Blob, at a lurching gallop, plunged into the opening his leader had
made, flashing his knife with a gurgling "Ho! ho!"
Last came the Parson with terrific sword.
It was all over before it had begun: a scuffle, a squeak, the flicker
and tinkle of steel; and the cloud burst and scattered into its
component drops.
The smugglers scampered away.
The Parson was wiping the point of his sword on a man.
"Dirty skunks!" he panted. "Had their bellyful before I'd begun.
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