The hill pumped him, he stumbled as
he ran, and, as Little gained on him yard by yard, he saw that he could
run no longer, but must come to bay. He turned round and faced his
pursuer, breathing hard, and with all his might tugging at a big
butcher's knife in his pocket. Ordinarily the knife came easily to his
hand, but he had forgotten that the pocket was stuffed with articles
stolen from the old pedlar. The knife was hopelessly jammed, and Little
was almost upon him. A large, sharp-pointed stone stuck out of the
ground at his feet. "_Keep off!_" he yelled to the ploughman. "Hands
off! or I'll scatter your brains!" And as he threatened, he stooped to
seize the stone and make good his threat. But the Fates that day had
signed the Irish villain's death-warrant. The good Border earth clung to
the stone, refusing to let it go. With all his force he tugged and
tugged, but ere the earth could give way, Little had thrown himself upon
him, and when Mr. Scott appeared over the brow of the hill, the sturdy
farmer was still holding his own with a kicking, biting, struggling,
cursing ruffian who would have had no compunction in adding another to
his list of victims that day. Between them, Little and the laird tied
their captive's hands behind his back with part of the bridle reins, and
walked him back to Kirkton.
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