Bunter the Caravanner - Friardale

Then he turned and panted along the bank towards the plank
bridge. At the same moment, another figure emerged from the
wood, evidently in pursuit of the fleeing tramp.
It was that of a small, stout gentleman, with a bristling white
moustache and a red face. The juniors could guess that this was
the proprietor of the estate on the other side of the stream,
whose ire had been roused by the discovery of a poaching tramp
in his domain. There was no doubt about the ire! His red face
was a picture of wrath. Stout as he was, he charged after the
tramp like an excited war-horse, brandishing the stick.
'Cheeky old ass! 'remarked Johnny Bull. 'He's no right to pitch
into the man like that, even if he is trespassing.'
'Right on the wicket,' agreed Harry Wharton. 'But that chap
doesn't look like stopping to argue the point.'
The tramp, or poacher, or whatever he was, certainly did not
look like stopping to argue! He was concentrated on dodging the
brandished stick in the rear. He jumped on the plank bridge to
cross. But the charging stout gentleman was close behind.
'Take that!'
Whop!
'And that!'
Whop!
Frantic yells from the tattered man woke the echoes as he took
them. He tottered on the plank and the watching schoolboys
caught their breath, half expecting to see him pitch off into
the water. But he righted himself, and ran on across the plank.
After him charged the stout man, with the stick still in active
operation.
Whop! whop!
'That old ass will take a tumble, if he's not careful,' remarked
Johnny Bull.
'Serve him right if he did! Man can't take the law into his own
hands like that!'
Whether the stout gentleman could, or could not, take the law
into his own hands in that dramatic manner, clearly he was bent
on doing so. He charged after the tramp with whacking stick.
Twice it landed on tattered shoulders, Then, as the tramp made a
desperate bound out of reach, it missed in another swipe and
swept down through the empty air. The force of that swipe,
meeting with no resistance, caused the stout man to pitch
forward, stumbling.
'Look out!' shouted Harry Wharton.
'Oh, crumbs! He's going!' gasped Nugent.
The tramp bounded off the plank bridge, to the bank where the
juniors stood. He shot past the group, and vanished up the lane.
He disappeared like a ghost at cock crow. The juniors did not
heed him. Their eyes were fixed on the little stout gentleman on
the plank. He was swaying and plunging wildly, in a frantic
effort to recover his balance.
'He's going—!'