tute, for which, by-the-by, he did not thank me; he would much rather have had me than you, Peter. Should there be any real need of help, I shall join you; the mill-bell will give warning. Meantime go, unless (turning suddenly to Messrs. Sweeting and Donne),—unless Davy Sweeting or Joseph Donne prefers going. What do you say, gentlemen? The commission is an honourable one, not without the seasoning of a little real peril, for the country is in a queer state, as you all know, and Moore and his mill, and his machinery, are held in sufficient odium. There are chivalric sentiments, there is high-beating courage under those waistcoats of yours, I doubt not. Perhaps I am too partial to my favourite, Peter; little David shall be the champion or spotless Joseph. Malone, you are but a great floundering Saul after all, good only to lend your armour: out with your fire-arms, fetch your shillelagh; it is there—in the corner.”
With a significant grin, Malone produced his pistols, offering one to each of his brethren: they were not readily seized on. With graceful modesty, each gentleman retired a step from the presented weapon.
“I never touch them: I never did touch anything of the kind,” said Mr. Donne.
“I am almost a stranger to Mr. Moore,” murmured Sweeting.
“If you never touched a pistol, try the feel of it now, great satrap of Egypt. As to the little min-
