He was threading a bridle-path which led up a gentle ascent to a hill overlooking the river, when his horse suddenly started back with a snort of terror as two men emerged from the thicket and grasped at his rein.  He raised his whip to strike one of them down; the man dodged, and his companion said, “None o’ that, or I’ll shoot your horse.”  The sun had set, but it was yet light, and he saw that the fellow had a cocked revolver in his hand.

“Well, what do you want?” he asked.

“I want you to stop where you are and go back,” said the man sullenly.

“Why should I go back?  My road lies the other way.  You step aside and let me pass.”

“You can’t pass this way.  Go back, or I’ll make you,” the man growled, shifting his pistol to his left hand and seizing Farnham’s rein with his right.  His intention evidently was to turn the horse around and start him down the path by which he had come.  Farnham saw his opportunity and struck the hand that held the pistol a smart blow.  The weapon dropped, but went off with a sharp report as it fell.  The horse reared and plunged, but the man held firmly to the rein.  His companion, joined by two or three other rough-looking men who rushed from the thicket, seized the horse and held him firmly, and pulled Farnham from the saddle.  They attempted no violence and no robbery.  The man who had held the pistol, a black-visaged fellow with a red face and dyed mustache, after rubbing his knuckles a moment, said:  “Let’s take it out o’ the ——­ whelp!” But another, to whom the rest seemed to look as a leader, said:  “Go slow, Mr. Bowersox; we want no trouble here.”

Farnham at this addressed the last speaker and said, “Can you tell me what all this means?  You don’t seem to be murderers.  Are you horse-thieves?”

“Nothing of the kind,” said the man.  “We are Reformers.”

Farnham gazed at him with amazement.  He was a dirty-looking man, young and sinewy, with long and oily hair and threadbare clothes, shiny and unctuous.  His eyes were red and furtive, and he had a trick of passing his hand over his mouth while he spoke.  His mates stood around him, listening rather studiedly to the conversation.  They seemed of the lower class of laboring men.  Their appearance was so grotesque, in connection with the lofty title their chief had given them, that Farnham could not help smiling, in spite of his anger.

“What is your special line of reform?” he asked,—­“spelling, or civil service?”

“We are Labor Reformers,” said the spokesman.  “We represent the toiling millions against the bloated capitalists and grinding monopolies; we believe that man is better——­”

“Yes, no doubt,” interrupted Farnham; “but how are you going to help the toiling millions by stopping my horse on the highway?”

“We was holding a meeting which was kep’ secret for reasons satisfactory to ourselves.  These two gentlemen was posted here to keep out intruders from the lodge.  If you had ‘a’ spoke civil to them, there would have been no harm done.  None will be done now if you want to go.”