He was no slinger or flinger, but brandished in his right hand the spoke of a cart-wheel, like my countryman Tom Hickathrift of old in his encounter with the giant of the Lincolnshire fen.

Protected by a piece of wicker- work attached to his left arm, he rushed on to the fray, disregarding the stones which were showered against him, and was ably seconded by his followers.

Our own party was chased half-way up the hill, where I was struck to the ground by the baker, after having been foiled in an attempt which I had made to fling a handful of earth into his eyes.

All now appeared lost, the Auld Toon was in full retreat.

I myself lay at the baker's feet, who had just raised his spoke, probably to give me the _coup de grace_,--it was an awful moment.