At the Pistol's Point

THE church bells were ringing for evensong, croaking across the snow with
short, harsh strokes, as though the frost had eaten into the metal and
made it hoarse. Outside, the scene had all the cheery sparkle, all the
peaceful glamour, of an old-fashioned Christmas card. There was the
snow-covered village, there the church-spire coated all down one side,
the chancel windows standing out like oil-paintings, the silver sickle of
a moon, the ideal thatched cottage with the warm, red light breaking from
the open door, and the peace of Heaven seemingly pervading and enveloping
all. Yet on earth we know that this peace is not; and the door of the
ideal cottage had been opened and was shut by a crushed woman, whose
husband had but now refused her pennies for the plate, with a curse which
followed her into the snow. And the odour prevailing beneath the thatched
roof was one of hot brandy-and-water, mingled with the fumes of some rank
tobacco.

Old Fitch was over sixty years of age, and the woman on her way to church
was his third wife; she had borne him no child, nor had Fitch son or
daughter living who would set foot inside his house. He was a singular
old man, selfish and sly and dissolute, yet not greatly disliked beyond
his own door, and withal a miracle of health and energy for his years. He
drank to his heart's content, but he was never drunk, nor was Sunday's
bottle ever known to lose him the soft side of Monday's bargain. By trade
he was game-dealer, corn-factor, money-lender, and mortgagee of half the
village; in appearance, a man of medium height, with bow-legs and immense
round shoulders, a hard mouth, shrewd eyes, and wiry hair as white as the
snow outside.

The bells ceased, and for a moment there was no sound in the cottage but
the song of the kettle on the hob. Then Fitch reached for the
brandy-bottle, and brewed himself another steaming bumper. As he watched
the sugar dissolve, a few notes from the organ reached his ears, and. the
old man smiled cynically as he sipped and smacked his lips. At his elbow
his tobacco-pipe and the weekly newspaper were ranged with the
brandy-bottle, and he was soon in enjoyment of all three. Over the paper
Fitch had already fallen asleep after a particularly hearty mid-day meal,
but he had not so much as glanced at the most entertaining pages, and he
found them now more entertaining than usual. There was a scandal in high
life running to several columns, and sub-divided into paragraphs labelled
with the most pregnant headlines; the old man's mouth watered as he
determined to leave this item to the last. It was not the only one of
interest; there were several suicides, an admirable execution, a
burglary, and--what? Fitch frowned as his quick eye came tumbling down a
paragraph; then all at once he gasped out an oath and sat very still. The
pipe in his mouth went out, the brandy-and-water was cooling in his
glass; you might have heard them singing the psalms in the church hard
by; but the old man heard nothing, saw nothing, thought of nothing but
the brief paragraph before his eyes.

'ESCAPE FROM PORTLAND.

'ONE CONVICT KILLED, ANOTHER WOUNDED, BUT A THIRD GETS CLEAN AWAY.

'The greatest excitement was caused at Weymouth yesterday morning on the
report being circulated that several convicts had effected their escape
from the grounds of the Portland convict establishment. There appears to
have been a regularly concerted plan on the part of the prisoners working
in one of the outdoor gangs to attempt to regain their liberty, as
yesterday morning three convicts bolted simultaneously from their party.
They were instantly challenged to stop, but as the order was not complied
with, the warders fired several shots. One of the runaways fell dead, and
another was so badly wounded that he was immediately recaptured, and is
now lying in a precarious condition. The third man, named Henry
Cattermole, continued his course despite a succession of shots, and was
soon beyond range of the rifles. He was pursued for some distance, but
was ultimately lost to view in the thick fog which prevailed. A hue and
cry was raised, and search parties continued to scour the neighbourhood
long after dark, but up to a late hour his recapture had not been
effected.

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At the Pistol's Point