just as he was going away, he heard a gate slam in the direction of the fields, and then he heard the low stumping of horses, as if on soft ground, for the path in those fields is generally soft, and at that time it had been lately ploughed up.  Well, brother, presently he saw two men on horseback coming towards the lane through the field behind the gate; the man who rode foremost was a tall big fellow, the very man he was in quest of; the other was a smaller chap, not so small either, but a light, wiry fellow, and a proper master of his hands when he sees occasion for using them.  Well, brother, the foremost man came to the gate, reached at the hank, undid it, and rode through, holding it open for the other.  Before, however, the other could follow into the lane, out bolted the plastramengro from behind the tree, kicked the gate to with his foot, and, seizing the big man on horse-back, “You are my prisoner,” said he.  I am of opinion, brother, that the plastramengro, notwithstanding he went to sleep, must have been a regular fine fellow.’

‘I am entirely of your opinion,’ said I; ‘but what happened then?’

’Why, brother, the Rommany chal, after he had somewhat recovered from his surprise, for it is rather uncomfortable to be laid hold of at night-time, and told you are a prisoner; more especially when you happen to have two or three things on your mind which, if proved against you, would carry you to the nashky,—­the Rommany chal, I say, clubbed his whip, and aimed a blow at the plastramengro, which, if it had hit him on the skull, as was intended, would very likely have cracked it.  The plastramengro, however, received it partly on his staff, so that it did him no particular damage.  Whereupon, seeing what kind of customer he had to deal with, he dropped his staff and seized the chal with both his hands, who forthwith spurred his horse, hoping, by doing so, either to break away from him or fling him down; but it would not do—­the plastramengro held on like a bull-dog, so that the Rommany chal, to escape being hauled to the ground, suddenly flung himself off the saddle, and then happened in that lane, close by the gate, such a struggle between those two—­the chal and the runner—­as I suppose will never happen again.  But you must have heard of it; every one has heard of it; every one has heard of the fight between the Bow Street engro and the Rommany chal.’

‘I never heard of it till now.’

’All England rung of it, brother.  There never was a better match than between those two.  The runner was somewhat the stronger of the two—­all those engroes are strong fellows—­and a great deal cooler, for all of that sort are wondrous cool people—­he had, however, to do with one who knew full well how to take his own part.  The chal fought the engro, brother, in the old Roman fashion.  He bit, he kicked, and screamed like a wild cat of Benygant; casting foam from his mouth and fire from his eyes.  Sometimes he was beneath the engro’s