At this the two boys backed a little, and Joe, thinking them daunted by his threatening mien, turned to take down the key of the shop from its nail on the wall.  But he had no sooner left my side than Vetch sprang forward, and catching me by the arm, gave it a cunning twist that, in spite of myself, made me shriek with pain.  Joe was round in an instant, and made for my tormentor, who with Cludde ran towards the door.  But in their endeavor to escape they impeded each other:  Vetch tripped, and before he could recover his footing Joe had him in an iron grip, and began to shake him as I had many times seen our terrier shake a rat he had caught in the barn.

“Let me go!” yells Cyrus.  “Help, Dick!  Kick his shins!”

But Cludde, though a big fellow enough, was never over ready to put his head in chancery.  He stood in the street, shaking his fist, and writhing his face into terrible grimaces at me.

“Let me go!” cries Vetch again.

“You young viper!” says Joe, shaking him still.  “You’ll misuse the little lad before my face, will you?  And squeal like a pig to be let go, will you?

“Aha!  You shall go,” he says with a sudden laugh.  “Dash me if ‘twere not made o’ purpose.”

Joe Punchard, I have forgotten to mention, was short of stature, standing no more than five feet three.  But he was very thick-set and heavily made, with massive arms and legs, the latter somewhat bowed, making him appear even shorter than he was.  It was these legs of his, together with his big round head and shock of reddish hair, that inspired some genius of the school with a couplet which was often chanted by the boys when they caught sight of Joe in the street.  It ran: 

O, pi, rho, bandy-legged Joe,
Turnip and carrots wherever you go.

But bandy-legged as he was, Joe had the great strength which I have often observed to accompany that defect of nature.  So it was with exceeding ease he lifted Cyrus Vetch, for all his struggles, with one hand, and dropped him into a barrel that stood, newly finished, against the wall—­a barrel of such noble height that Vetch quite disappeared within it.  Then, trundling it upon its edge, as draymen do with casks of beer, he brought it to the street, laid it sidelong, and set it rolling.

Now the Wyle Cop at Shrewsbury, as you may know, is a street that winds steeply down to the English Bridge over the Severn.  Had it been straight, the bias of the barrel would doubtless have soon carried it to the side, and Joe Punchard might have risen in course of time to the status of a master cooper in his native town.  But when I went to the door to see what was happening, there was the barrel in full career, following the curve of the street, and gathering speed with every yard.  Joe stood with arms akimbo, smiling broadly.  Cludde was racing after the barrel, shouting for someone to stop it.

If I had not already been in such mortal terror of the consequences of Joe’s mad freak, I should have laughed to see the wayfarers as they skipped out of the course of the runagate, not one of them aware as yet that it held human contents, nor guessing that the end might be more than broken staves.