“Well, come on,” said the first speaker, “or he will get away whilst we are jawing about what we shall do.”

Advancing to Mr. Stevens, he tapped that gentleman on the shoulder, and said, with mock civility, and in as bland a tone as he could assume, “It’s really very obliging of you, mister, to come up here to be flogged—­saves us the trouble of coming down to you.  We would like to settle with you for that drubbing you gave one of our boys last week.”

“You must be mistaken,” replied Mr. Stevens:  “I don’t know anything of the affair to which you allude.”

“You don’t, eh!  Well, take that, then, to freshen your memory,” exclaimed one of the party, at the same time dealing him a heavy blow on the cheek, which made the lamplights around appear to dance about in the most fantastic style.

The first impulse of Mr. Stevens was to cry out for the watchman; but a moment’s reflection suggested the impolicy of that project, as he would inevitably be arrested with the rest; and to be brought before a magistrate in his present guise, would have entailed upon him very embarrassing explanations; he therefore thought it best to beg off—­to throw himself, as it were, upon their sympathies.

“Stop, gentlemen—­stop—­for God’s sake, stop,” he cried, as soon as he could regain the breath that had been almost knocked out of him by the tremendous blow he had just received—­“don’t kill an innocent man; upon my honour I never saw you before, nor ever assaulted any of you in my life.  My dear friends,” he continued, in a dolorous tone, “please let me go—­you are quite mistaken:  I assure you I am not the man.”  “No, we ain’t mistaken, either:  you’re one of the rangers; I know you by your coat,” replied one of the assaulters.

It now flashed upon Mr. Stevens that he had brought himself into these difficulties, by the assumption of the dress he then wore; he therefore quickly rejoined—­“Oh, it is not my coat—­I only put it on for a joke!”

“That’s a likely tale,” responded one of the party, who looked very incredulous; “I don’t believe a word of it.  That’s some darned stuff you’ve trumped up, thinking to gammon us—­it won’t go down; we’ll just give you a walloping, if it’s only to teach you to wear your own clothes,”—­and suiting the action to the word, he commenced pommelling him unmercifully.

“Help! help!” screamed Mr. Stevens.  “Don’t kill me, gentlemen,—­don’t kill me!”

“Oh! we won’t kill you—­we’ll only come as near it as we can, without quite finishing you,” cried one of his relentless tormenters.

On hearing this, their victim made a frantic effort to break away, and not succeeding in it, he commenced yelling at the top of his voice.  As is usual in such cases, the watchman was nowhere to be seen; and his cries only exasperated his persecutors the more.

“Hit him in the bread-crusher, and stop his noise,” suggested one of the party farthest off from Mr. Stevens.  This piece of advice was carried into immediate effect, and the unfortunate wearer of the obnoxious coat received a heavy blow in the mouth, which cut his lips and knocked out one of his front teeth.