My father, John Ridd, had been killed by the Doones of Bag- worthy while riding home from Porlock market with six other farmers one Saturday evening. These robbers had no grudge against him, for he never flouted them because they robbed other people The seven were jogging along when suddenly a horseman stopped in the starlight full across them, and though he seemed one man against seven it was really one man against one, for of the six who were with him there was not one who did not pull out his money. But father set his staff about his head and rode at the Doope robber, who avoided the sudden attack. Then, when Smiler was carried away by the dash and weight of my father, the outlaw plundered the rest of the party. As father returned to help them he found himself in the midst of a dozen men, who seemed to come out of a turf-rick, some on horse, some on foot. He smote lustily with his staff, cracking three or four crowns, until the rest drew their horses away, and he thought he wa...
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