The fellow rose with a promptness which partly disarmed Grant’s suspicions, and put his foot on the edge of the vehicle, ready to jump down.  Then he turned swiftly and flung himself upon the farmer, crushing his soft felt hat down to his chin.  Grant could see nothing, and while he strove to get a grip on his antagonist he was thrown violently backward off the driving seat.  The wagon was of the usual high pattern, and he came down on the ground with a crash that nearly knocked him unconscious.  Before he got up, he was seized firmly and held with his shoulders pressed against the soil.  He struggled, however, until somebody grasped his legs and his arms were drawn forcibly apart.  It was impossible to see, because the thick hat was still over his face and somebody held it fast, but he had an idea that three or four men had fallen upon him.  They had, no doubt, been hidden among the brush; the affair had been carefully arranged with his treacherous companion.

“Open his jacket; try the inside pocket,” cried one; and he felt hands fumbling about him.  Then there was a disappointed exclamation.  “Check-book; that’s no good!”

The farmer made a last determined effort.  After having long ruled his household and hired men as a benevolent but decidedly firm-handed autocrat, it was singularly galling to be treated in this unceremonious fashion, and if he could only shake off the hat and get a glimpse of his assailants he would know them again.  Moreover, he had brought a roll of bills with him, in case he should make some small purchases.  He was, however, held firmly, and the hands he had felt dived into another pocket.

“Got it now!” cried a hoarse voice.  “Here’s his wallet; seems to have a good wad in it!”

Grant, though he was generally sternly collected, boiled with fury.  He felt no fear, but an uncontrollable longing to grapple with the men who had so humiliated him.

“Guess, I’ll fix you up!” came an angry voice when Grant managed to fling off one pair of hands.

Then he received a heavy blow on the head.  Somebody had struck him with the butt of a whip or riding quirt.  The pain was distressing; he felt dazed and stupid, disinclined to move, but he retained consciousness.  There were sounds to which he could attach a meaning:  a rattle of harness which indicated that his driving team was being loosened, a thud of hoofs as the heavier Percherons were led away.  In the meanwhile he could still feel a strong grasp on his shoulder, holding him down, and once or twice a man near him gave the others sharp instructions.  Grant made a languid effort to fix the voice in his memory, but this was difficult because his mind worked heavily.

At length the driving team was unyoked—­he could hear it being led away—­but the ache in his head grew almost intolerable and his lassitude more intense.  For a while he had no idea what was going on; and then a hoarse cry, which seemed one of alarm, rang out sharply.  There was a patter of running feet, a thud of hoofs on the soft soil, and, breaking through these sounds, a rhythmic staccato drumming.  Somebody was riding hard across the uneven ground.