All this time the eyes of Mr. Shrig were roving here, wandering there,
now apparently glancing up at the strip of sky between the dingy
house tops, now down at the cobbles beneath their feet; also
Barnabas noticed that his step, all at once, grew slower and more
deliberate, as one who hesitates, uncertain as to whether he shall
go on, or turn back. It was after one of those swift, upward glances,
that Mr. Shrig stopped all at once, seized Barnabas by the middle
and dragged him into an adjacent doorway, as something crashed down
and splintered within a yard of them.
"What now--what is it?" cried Barnabas.
"Win-dictiveness!" sighed Mr. Shrig, shaking his head at the missile,
"a piece o' coping-stone, thirty pound if a ounce--Lord! Keep flat
agin the door sir, same as me, they may try another--I don't think
so--still they may, so keep close ag'in the door. A partic'lar narrer
shave I calls it!" nodded Mr. Shrig; "shook ye a bit sir?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, wiping his brow.
"Ah well, it shook me--and I'm used to windictiveness. A brick now,"
he mused, his eyes wandering again, "a brick I could ha' took kinder,
bricks an' sich I'm prepared for, but coping-stones--Lord love me!"
"But a brick would have killed you just the same--"
"Killed me? A brick? Oh no, sir!"
"But, if it had hit you on the head--"
"On the 'at sir, the 'at--or as you might say--the castor--this, sir,"
said Mr. Shrig; and glancing furtively up and down the gloomy alley
he took off the broad-brimmed hat; "just run your ogles over this
'ere castor o' mine, an' you'll understand, perhaps."
"It's very heavy," said Barnabas, as he took the hat.
"Ah, it is a bit 'eavyish, sir. Peep inside of it."
"Why," exclaimed Barnabas, "it's lined with--"
"Iron, sir. My own inwention ag'in windictiveness in the shape o'
bricks an' bludgeons, an' werry useful an comfortin' I've found it.
But if they're going to begin on me vith coping-stones,--v'y Lord!"
And Mr. Shrig sighed his gentle sigh, and rubbed his placid brow, and
once more covered it with the "inwention."
"And now sir, you've got a pair o' good, long legs--can ye use 'em?"
"Use them,--yes. Why?"
"Because it's about time as we cut our stick an' run for it."
"What are we to run for?"
"Because they're arter me,--nine on 'em,--consequent they're arter
you too, d' ye see. There's four on 'em be'ind us, an' five on 'em
in front. You can't see 'em because they're layin' low. And they're
bad uns all, an' they means business."
"What--a fight?"
"As ever vas, sir. I've 'ad my eye on 'em some time. That 'ere
coping-stone vas the signal."