flew out from the shoulder. A sharp smack, a heavy thud, and Nat Sullivan lay in a heap on the ground, with a livid mark between the ear and the eye that lay upturned to the moon.
“Ye’ve kilt’m—ye’ve kilt’m!” cried the girl, clinging in terror to Tom’s arm.
“I hope I have,” he answered. “It will be a good thing done for all concerned.”
“Whisht! They’ll be afther hearin’ ye—look behind!”
Even as he turned, the gate swung open, and there was Dr. Sullivan himself, with his frogged coat flying, and his night-shirt flapping outside his nankeen breeches. The watchman Roberts was at his master’s naked heels, closely followed by Ginger the overseer, in similar dishabille. These two seized Tom, who showed no semblance of resistance, while the doctor knelt over the fallen man, and felt his heart.
“Only stunned,” said he, looking up. “But you shall smart for this, you miscreant, if you don’t hang yet! The very man he warned me against—the very man whose part I took against him! What have you to say for yourself, you ruffian, before I have you put in irons and locked up?”
“You saw the blow, Dr. Sullivan?”
“You dare to ask me? With my own eyes, you villain!”
“Then you also saw the cause.”
“Cause? What cause? As if there could be any!”
“He would have struck a woman if I hadn’t struck him first.”
“It’s a lie,” said a hollow voice from the ground. And a bloodthirsty eye covered Tom.
“Ha, my boy! Thank God you are no worse; but sit
