It was a _Western Morning News_, and the date was
ten days before. The passage over which he pressed a long, black nail
was concerned with the release from Dartmoor of a convict named Elias,
whose term of sentence had been remitted on account of his defence of a
warder who had been attacked in the quarries. The whole account was only
a few lines long. “Who is he, then?” I asked. My uncle cocked his distorted foot into the air. “That’s ’is mark!” said
he. “’E was doin’ time for that. Now ’e’s out an’ after me again.”

“But why should he be after you?”

“Because ’e wants to kill me. Because ’e’ll never rest, the worrying
devil, until ’e ’as ’ad ’is revenge on me. It’s this way, nephew! I’ve
no secrets from you. ’e thinks I’ve wronged ’im. For argument’s sake
we’ll suppose I ’ave wronged ’im. And now ’im and ’is friends are after
me.”

“Who are his friends?”

My uncle’s boom sank suddenly to a frightened whisper. “Sailors!” said
he. “I knew they would come when I saw that ’ere paper, and two days ago
I looked through that window and three of them was standin’ lookin’ at
the ’ouse. It was after that that I wrote to your mother. They’ve marked
me down, and they’re waitin’ for ’im.”

“But why not send for the police?”

My uncle’s eyes avoided mine. “Police are no use,” said he. “It’s you that can help me.”

“What can I do?”

“I’ll tell you. I’m going to move. That’s what all these boxes are for. Everything will soon be packed and ready. I ’ave friends at Leeds, and I
shall be safer there. Not safe, mind you, but safer. I start to-morrow
evening, and if you will stand by me until then I will make it worth
your while. There’s only Enoch and me to do everything, but we shall
’ave it all ready, I promise you, by to-morrow evening. The cart will be
round then, and you and me and Enoch and the boy William can guard the
things as far as Congleton station. Did you see anything of them on the
fells?”

“Yes,” said I; “a sailor stopped us on the way.”

“Ah, I knew they were watching us. That was why I asked you to get out
at the wrong station and to drive to Purcell’s instead of comin’ ’ere. We are blockaded—that’s the word.”

“And there was another,” said I, “a man with a pipe.”

“What was ’e like?”

“Thin face, freckles, a peaked——”

My uncle gave a hoarse scream. “That’s ’im! that’s ’im! ’e’s come! God be merciful to me, a sinner!” He
went click-clacking about the room with his great foot like one
distracted. There was something piteous and baby-like in that big bald
head, and for the first time I felt a gush of pity for him. “Come, uncle,” said I, “you are living in a civilized land. There is a
law that will bring these gentry to order. Let me drive over to the
county police-station to-morrow morning and I’ll soon set things right.”

But he shook his head at me. “E’s cunning and ’e’s cruel,” said he. “I can’t draw a breath without
thinking of him, cos ’e buckled up three of my ribs. ’e’ll kill me this
time, sure. There’s only one chance. We must leave what we ’ave not
packed, and we must be off first thing to-morrow mornin’. Great God,
what’s that!”

A tremendous knock upon the door had reverberated through the house and
then another and another. An iron fist seemed to be beating upon it. My
uncle collapsed into his chair. I seized a gun and ran to the door. “Who’s there?” I shouted. There was no answer. I opened the shutter and looked out. No one was there. And then suddenly I saw that a long slip of paper was protruding through
the slit of the door. I held it to the light. In rude but vigorous
handwriting the message ran:—

“Put them out on the doorstep and save your skin.”

“What do they want?” I asked, as I read him the message. “What they’ll never ’ave! No, by the Lord, never!” he cried, with a fine
burst of spirit. “’Ere, Enoch! Enoch!”

The old fellow came running to the call. “Enoch, I’ve been a good master to you all my life, and it’s your turn
now. Will you take a risk for me?”

I thought better of my uncle when I saw how readily the man consented. Whomever else he had wronged, this one at least seemed to love him. “Put your cloak on and your ‘at, Enoch, and out with you by the back
door. You know the way across the moor to the Purcells’. Tell them that
I must ’ave the cart first thing in the mornin’, and that Purcell must
come with the shepherd as well. We must get clear of this or we are
done. First thing in the mornin’, Enoch, and ten pound for the job. Keep
the black cloak on and move slow, and they will never see you. We’ll
keep the ’ouse till you come back.”

It was a job for a brave man to venture out into the vague and invisible
dangers of the fell, but the old servant took it as the most ordinary of
messages. Picking his long, black cloak and his soft hat from the hook
behind the door, he was ready on the instant. We extinguished the small
lamp in the back passage, softly unbarred the back door, slipped him
out, and barred it up again. Looking through the small hall window, I
saw his black garments merge instantly into the night. “It is but a few hours before the light comes, nephew,” said my uncle,
after he had tried all the bolts and bars. “You shall never regret this
night’s work. If we come through safely it will be the making of you. Stand by me till mornin’, and I stand by you while there’s breath in my
body. The cart will be ’ere by five. What isn’t ready we can afford to
leave be’ind. We’ve only to load up and make for the early train at
Congleton.”

“Will they let us pass?”

“In broad daylight they dare not stop us. There will be six of us, if
they all come, and three guns. We can fight our way through. Where can
they get guns, common, wandering seamen? A pistol or two at the most. If
we can keep them out for a few hours we are safe. Enoch must be ’alfway
to Purcell’s by now.”

“But what do these sailors want?” I repeated. “You say yourself that you
wronged them.”

A look of mulish obstinacy came over his large, white face. “Don’t ask questions, nephew, and just do what I ask you,” said he. “Enoch won’t come back. ’e’ll just bide there and come with the cart. ’Ark, what is that?”

A distant cry rang from out of the darkness, and then another one, short
and sharp like the wail of the curlew. “It’s Enoch!” said my uncle, gripping my arm. “They’re killin’ poor old
Enoch.”

The cry came again, much nearer, and I heard the sound of hurrying steps
and a shrill call for help. “They are after ’im!” cried my uncle, rushing to the front door. He
picked up the lantern and flashed it through the little shutter. Up the
yellow funnel of light a man was running frantically, his head bowed and
a black cloak fluttering behind him. The moor seemed to be alive with
dim pursuers. “The bolt! The bolt!” gasped my uncle. He pushed it back whilst I turned
the key, and we swung the door open to admit the fugitive. He dashed in
and turned at once with a long yell of triumph. “Come on, lads! Tumble
up, all hands, tumble up!