A moment later, as this runner
came on, a second hove in sight over the rise of the road behind
him--a short figure, so stout and round that in the distance it
resembled not so much a man as a ball rolling in pursuit.
"Hi! Stop, you there!" shouted Mr. Rogers; but the first runner
might have been deaf, for all the attention he paid.
"Good Lord!" said I, catching my breath; "it's Mr. George
Goodfellow!"
"In the King's name!" Mr. Rogers shouted, making a dash to intercept
him. And a moment later the two had collided, and were rolling in
the dust together.
I ran towards them, with Plinny--brave soul!--at my heels, and
arrived to find Mr. Rogers, hatless and exceedingly dishevelled,
kneeling with both hands around the neck of his prostrate antagonist,
and holding his face down in the dust.
"You'd best stand up and come along quietly," Mr. Rogers adjured
him.
"Gug-gug--how the devil c-can I stand up if you won't lul-lul-let
me?" protested Mr. Goodfellow, reasonably enough.
"Very well, then." Mr. Rogers relaxed his grip. "Stand up!
But you're my prisoner, so let's have no more nonsense!"
"I'd like to know what's taken ye to pitch into a man like this?"
demanded Mr. Goodfellow in a tone of great umbrage, as he shook the
dust out of his coat and hair.
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