He drew his revolver from his pocket, and struck his opponent a heavy blow on his temple.  The Irishman uttered a groan, and remained motionless, and then Fred rushed towards me to see what assistance I needed; but I fortunately required none, for the man I had taken charge of, after being frustrated in his attempt to use his knife, remained perfectly quiet, and appeared disposed to surrender on as good terms as he could make.

“Never mind me,” I cried, as Fred joined me; “I will take charge of this fellow, and blow his brains out if he makes an attempt to escape.  Extinguish the fire before it gains headway, and don’t, above all things, raise an alarm.”

Fred crawled under the building, and in a few seconds had scattered the firebrands so that all danger was passed, and in the latter work Smith and Murden rendered good service; for the lieutenant quickly had a couple of buckets of water on hand, which he had brought from our “sink hole,” and in a very few minutes all traces of the fire were destroyed.

“Have you got the scamp?” asked Murden, crawling from his confined quarters, where he had been nearly strangled with smoke.

“This fellow appears to be quiet enough,” I answered, turning my prisoner over on his back, so that I could see his face.

“Is he?” asked the fellow in a sarcastic tone; and quick as lightning he started to his feet, and I saw a long knife flash in the starlight, and before I could spring aside he aimed it full at my breast.

In another instant I should have been a dead man, but, fortunately, Murden saw the move, and struck the ruffian’s arm up, and the knife passed over my shoulder harmless.  The next instant my prisoner was measuring his length on the hard ground, with blood spirting from his nose and mouth, the effects of a tremendous blow, which the lieutenant delivered full upon his unprotected face.

“Lie there, you d——­d midnight incendiary,” cried the officer, indignant to think that he wished to add murder to his other crimes.

The wretch only groaned in reply; but Murden, thinking that he was shamming, slipped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists, and then served the Irishman, whom Fred had rendered tongue-tied by a blow from his revolver, in the same manner.

“A neat pair of handcuffs is an ornament that disgraces no one, while they add to a person’s security eighty per cent.  There is, to be sure, a slight prejudice against having them on in unmixed company, but it is astonishing how soon the feeling wears off.  Next to a good revolver, believe me, a pair of handcuffs is a policeman’s best friend.”

While the lieutenant was speaking, he gave the prostrate Irishman a kick with his heavy boot, as an illustration of his argument perhaps, and the blow was sufficient to restore the fellow to his senses.

“Holy St. Patrick, it’s murdering me, ye are,” he exclaimed.

“No, but we intend to, unless you inform us who hired you to set fire to our store,” rejoined Fred.