WHEREIN MR. MOLE PHILOSOPHISES AND HAS AN ADVENTURE--THE SCENT
OF BATTLE--MOLE THE TERROR OF THE BRIGANDS--ISAAC THE
ANNIHILATOR--MOLE'S PRISONER.
It must not be supposed that Isaac Mole was idle all this time.
He heard of the bold doings of his friends Harkaway, Harvey and
Jefferson, not to speak of the valuable aid of Nabley the detective,
and, figuratively speaking, his very soul panted for glory.
"I feel I could conquer by my single hand half-a-dozen brigands," said
Mole to himself; "but still I should prefer to come across a sleeping
brigand. But ah, me!" there he sighed deeply, "brigands are as rarely
caught asleep as weasels."
Poor old Mole's desire to distinguish himself in this matter was very
great.
The plain truth was that poor Isaac was at times badly henpecked.
On these occasions he would assume his most dignified deportment and
point to his wooden legs.
"There are proofs, Mrs. Mole," he would say, "that Isaac Mole never
shunned the foe in his life."
"Yah, yah!" his spouse would gracefully smile in reply, "dat no fault
ob yours, Ikey Mole; de ignorant critters took off your legs because
you so often lost your legs before."
"Lost them before?"
"Yes."
"Before they were amputated, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"Why, Mrs. Mole," and he would draw himself up to his full height, "you
have been surely indulging in strong waters."
"No, sar; no, Ikey Mole, not dis gal, sar. You lose your legs continual
and your head too, sar, with strong waters--sperrits, sar, sperrits."
Poor Mole, he was no match for her, and could only turn for consolation
to where he had ever thought to drown dull care.
The bottle.
Mrs. Mole one day surprised him at a sly tipple in the grounds of the
villa, and he knew it to his sorrow.
Suddenly popping round the corner, Chloe emptied the contents of a pail
over his luckless head.
"Thar, you teetottler! you banderhoper, you good templar! Take a leetle
tiddy drop of water with your rum; makes lubly grog well mixed, yah,
yah!"
And then the amiable partner of his joys and sorrows bore off her empty
pail, leaving her husband to dry and shiver.
"Philosophy, my dear Mole," said the worthy Isaac to himself,
"philosophy is your physic; think of Socrates and be at ease--ugh! It's
precious damp--too much water. I must have an extra drop to keep the
cold out."
And up went that inexhaustible bottle again.
"Ha! Massa Ikey!" said a terrible voice close at hand, "you want some
more water to mix with it, do you?"
Mole clutched his bottle, jumped up, and rushed wildly to the house,
with his loving spouse after him with another pail of water.
* * * * *
From that time Mole scarcely dared have a suck at his bottle within
half a mile of the house.
One afternoon, having dined early, Mole went for a walk in the suburbs
of the town, and selecting a favourable spot, he reclined gracefully
and dropped off into a gentle slumber.
How long he slept he never knew until this hour.
All he knew was that he dreamt that he was the hero of some gallant
adventures, wherein the Greek brigands fell before his sword like corn
before the reaper's sickle; yea, as the phantom miscreants succumbed to
the onslaught of Don Quixote.
Now, while he slept, a man crawled out of the thicket upon all fours
and looked eagerly about him.
The singular part of this incident was that, although the sleeping Mole
was within six feet of the spot, he did not perceive him.
Mole was partly hidden by the thickly-grown bushes.
The man dragged himself painfully on; he was badly hurt.
One of his legs was broken, and he carried no less than three pistol
bullets in his body; in short, it was little less than marvellous that
he was able to crawl at all.
The history of this miserable wretch is soon told.
He had been shot down by the unerring aim of Nabley the detective, and
feeling himself badly hurt, he had sought safety in flight while there
was yet time.
Dragging his wounded body into the thickly-grown copse, he had lain
hidden from sight, baffling the keenest search; and here he had
presently lost consciousness.
Loss of blood and anguish had rendered the hapless wretch powerless to
help himself, and knowing well what little mercy he had to expect from
the Englishmen did they come upon him, had lain there in fear and
trembling at every sound until hunger was added to his other torments.
He was nearly blinded with a blow he had received on the face, and now
his only hope was to be able to crawl along until he came up with some
of his comrades, who would help him to regain their stronghold in the
mountains.
"Oh!" he groaned, "a blight upon the hand that struck me down. Oh!"
And the violence of his pains made him give a deep groan.
Mole moved.
Then opened his eyes; and waking, his glance fell upon a ghastly
looking object, pale and bloody, dragging itself along.
Coming towards him.
Mole gasped.
This was real, he knew at once; there was no doubt about that.
It was one of the Greek brigands, who had seen him asleep, no doubt,
and was about to do for him.
Poor Mole.
Cold beads of perspiration stood upon his brow.
A channel of sweat trickled down the small of his back.
His very wig stood up on his scalp with terror.
What should he do?
Alas! it would soon be all over with him.
The ghastly object crawled on.
A minute more and the wretched man would be up with him.
Now, poor old Mole had on occasions been what is called pot-valiant.
He sought his black bottle for Dutch courage; but before he could raise
it to his bloodless lips, the wounded man perceived him, and he gave a
cry of terror.
"Keep off!" cried Mole, his teeth rattling like a box of dominoes.
The wounded man, half blind as he was and frightened out of what little
sense remained to him, took the black bottle for another revolver such
as Nabley had carried; and having a wholesome dread of that terrible
weapon, he cowered down, hiding his face on the ground.
"Don't be violent," exclaimed the wretched Mole.
"Mercy, mercy!" implored the brigand.
"Have pity on me," said Mole, in abject terror.
"Do as you please with me," whined the brigand, "only for mercy's sake
don't fire again at such a poor wretch as I am."
"Think of my helpless condition," said Mole.
"I am done to death," said the brigand.
"I have two wooden legs," gasped Mole.
"Do what you will with me," cried the brigand, in despair, "only give
me water--a drop for mercy's sake."
And he prostrated himself in abject submission before the half dead
Mole.
Now the latter could not well misunderstand this attitude; but yet he
could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses.
"What's his game?" thought Mole; "he is trying the artful dodge on; and
he's going to jump up and give me one for myself--not for Isaac. By
jingo! What a topper I could give him as he lays there, what a--"
He stopped short.
"My eye! what a hole he has got in his head already."
And then by degrees, in spite of his fears, he was forced to see that
this piteous object was not dangerous.
As Mole rose up to look at the brigand, the latter made still more
signs of submission, and now he could no longer misunderstand.
It is difficult to say which feeling filled Mole most completely,
surprise or satisfaction.
"Oh, oh," cried Mole; "I feel that my heart tells me I have great
courage. Yes, I will capture this desperate brigand with my own brave
hands."
Here was a slice of luck.
"I'll just drive him home," said the crafty Isaac to himself, "and then
see if Chloe will dare to cheek me as she has done of late. I rather
flatter myself I shall take it out of Harkaway and Jefferson
themselves."
First, though, he meant to have one more suck at the black bottle.
But now again, to his intense surprise, at the sight of the bottle, the
wounded man cowered and shrank back in terror.
"Mercy, mercy, great captain," he implored; "as you are strong, be
merciful."
"What does he mean?" muttered the astonished Mole.
"Don't fire again," cried the wounded man feebly; "I never hurt one of
your friends. I am not responsible for the two boys' death. It was done
without my will, for I don't war with boys or women; ah, how I suffer."
"Don't fire! Why, what--ah, I see it; he takes the bottle for a pistol.
"March on then," he said in a terrible voice; "on with you, or I'll
fire."
"Don't, don't! mercy!"
"March on then, or I'll blow you to atoms," and he presented the black
bottle again.
The Greek held up his hands in supplication and moved on.
"Go on!" thundered Mole.
"I'll be your slave, your abject slave," groaned the brigand; "but oh,
great warrior, captain, spare my life."
"I'll eat you alive," hissed the cannibal Mole in his ear, "if you
don't walk faster."
"I will, I will."
"Faster still, or you die."
"Pity, pity."
"Bah!" said the fierce Isaac, contemptuously, "why should I have pity
on you after killing a score of your fellows with my own hand? Answer
me that."
The other was silent.
In this way, the valiant Mole drove the miserable wretch to the villa.
When, after a long and wearisome journey, they got within a stone's
throw of the grounds of the house, Mr. Mole was suddenly startled to
hear a loud, shrill cry of alarm, and who should appear before them but
Mrs. Mole herself?
"Whateber hab you there, Ikey?" she demanded.
"A prisoner, my dear," responded Mole.
"A what?" she exclaimed; "whose prisoner?"
"Mine."
"Yourn?"
"Pardon me, my dear--yours, not yourn. Yes, my prisoner," he added
modestly; "I have captured him."
"Where?"
"In the wood."
"What you doing there, Ikey?"
"I was on the hunt. I came across them--five, and a little warm work
went forward. The other four," he added significantly, "I have left on
their backs, with a pretty decent sign of my handiwork upon all of
them."
Chloe gasped.
"You're a drefful man," said Chloe; "and I'll run for Massa Harkaway."
And she dashed down the garden, crying out for Harkaway and Jefferson,
and goodness knows who besides.
They were ever upon the _qui vive_ for danger, so down they came
with a rush.
"Why, Mr. Mole," exclaimed Jefferson, "you have indeed got a prize."
"However did you manage it?" asked Harkaway, not a whit less startled.
Mole coughed.
"I felt that something was required of me," he answered, with touching
dignity and modesty combined, "and so I went on the hunt myself, and I
fell foul of a few of the Greek vampires."
"A few," echoed Jefferson, elevating his eyebrows; "a few, you said."
"Yes," replied Mr. Mole, "only five."
"Not more?" said Jefferson, laughing; "then you must have felt rather
bad in the inside."
"Never, sir," said Mole, getting more and more dignified; "but I left
the enemy rather unhappy, in the inside and the outside."
"Indeed!"
"This is the only survivor out of five; question him closely."
Mole had carefully ascertained that the wounded Greek didn't speak a
solitary word of English.
"Ask him, I say, what I did for his comrades; how I larded them--how I
peppered them, and made them cry peccavi. Damme, Jefferson, old boy,
you should have seen me in action; gad, sir, I'm like an old war-horse
at the first sniff of powder. Down they went, first one, then the
other. Hang me! if I didn't play at skittles with' em, and I was in
that humour, Harkaway, when you can't miss. I'd just cheek the corner
pin and make a royal every go. What do you think of that, Harkaway?"
Old Jack smiled.
"I'm not proficient enough in skittles to appreciate the feat," he
answered.
"And so you tackled all this lot single-handed?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"Ten."
"I thought you said five."
"Ten, sir, ten in all; five came up at first, but in as many moments
they were all on their backs; and then up came another five of them,
each heavily armed. I never forget; hang it! I couldn't forget such a
job as that very easily. Five of the second lot fell at my first fire;
I toppled over three more, and the other one--"
What Mr. Mole might in his ardour have been tempted to draw for upon
his glowing fancy, it is impossible to say, for just as he reached this
point in his fanciful narration, up came Nabley.
"Hullo!" he said, as he caught sight of the wounded brigand; "here's
the missing man."
"This," cried the rest of the people present as if with one voice.
"Yes, this is the man I shot down at my first fire; he must have
crawled away to hide; why, where is Mr. Mole running to?"
The imaginative old gentleman suddenly vanished from the scene.
He did not relish the presence of such a witness as this.
"This is Mr. Mole's prisoner," said Jefferson, laughing; "you see he
has brought in one, after all."
"I bring you something better even then prisoners," said the detective.
"What is that?"
"Good news."
"Speak; what is it?"
"The brigands have given up Hunston."
Harkaway started at the words.
"That is news, indeed," he said; "and now justice demands that the
villain shall speedily hang."