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“My duty!” answered Jabez, stoutly, taking no notice of the sneer at himself. “How could you gentlemen torment a poor old cripple like that?”

“He’s a drunken old sot!” cried Barret.

“It’s downright cruel!” continued Jabez, as he stood between the jabbering drunkard and his tormentors.

“We’re no more cruel than he is! He’s been catching fishes all day. We’ve only given him a taste of his own hook; and we’ll have none of your meddling!” and out went the pugilistic arm of Laurence straight from the shoulder to deal another blow, when it was caught from behind by the bony hand of Ben Travis, bigger and stronger by two year’s growth, whilst the other hand gripped his jacket collar.

“So you’re at your cowardly tricks again, Aspinall!” exclaimed he, holding the other as if in a vice. “But if I see you lay another finger on that lad, I’ll report you to Dr. Smith.”

“Oh! you’d turn sneak, would you?” sneered Laurence, striving to twist himself loose, and disordering his broad white frill in the endeavour.