sharply. "What are you doing?" His questions were greeted with a prolonged hoot. Someone began to beat on a tin pan.
Then a voice bawled, "Where's your fancy girl?" and another, "Bring out your squaw!"
Derek walked firmly to the gate. He tried to speak, but his voice was drowned in yells and catcalls. The same voice kept bawling.
"Where's your fancy girl? Let's see your squaw baby."
The man who held the electric torch turned it suddenly on Derek. There was a howl of delighted laughter. As it subsided, a cockney voice said, "Wot a tableau 'e mikes!" More derisive laughter followed, then, out of the blackness, a clod of earth spun, and struck Derek on the head.
An instant later the house door banged and Hugh McKay came running down the walk.
"What's the trouble, sir?" he panted.
"Those blackguards," answered Derek, in a voice heavy with passion, "are giving me a sort of charivari."
"I'm no surprised. Bob Gunn told me the oldest Chard boy said they were gaein' to mak' things hot for ye."
"Go to bed, Scotty! Go to bed!" yelled the rowdies. "Take your boss with you, too." An obscene remark followed, then a shower of sticks and stones.
"Shall we rush them, sir?" asked Hugh, wiping a trickle of blood from his cheek.
"Yes. Keep close together, and let them have it."
Derek swung open the gate. He and Hugh, without waiting for the rabble to recover from their surprise, flung themselves upon them in all the exuberance of their strong young manhood.
For a few moments the serenaders surged about them and showed some fight, but it was soon over. The dark mass of figures coiled and uncoiled in the road, then
