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manded, in a manner which, so far as I was concerned, required no reply whatever.

"A revolver was flashed in our faces."

Ted, however, seemed to think otherwise.

"I haven't brought much money with me; but so far as half a sovereign is concerned———"

"Half-sovereign me no half-sovereign!"

Ted ducked. He appeared to be under the impression—which, I am bound to own, I shared—that that ideal candidate for Falstaff's ragged regiment was about to "take a shot" at him. Our new acquaintance, however, restrained his zeal.

"My dear sir," cried Ted, "don't fire! I assure you that my sympathy is yours. I have always been conscious that a gentleman in your position may be, if all were known, a better man———"

"Sympathy me no sympathy!" (Another duck from Ted.) "What I want," yelled the stranger, as if he were addressing a meeting in Hyde Park, "is clothes!"

I felt that this was true; indeed, we both of us felt that this was true. But none the less, we were not prepared for what immediately followed.

"Take off your coat!"

Ted chose to take the request as being addressed to him.

"I am afraid you will find my coat too small for you."

"The two of you take off your coats. I will sew them both together."

The proposition did not commend itself to me as being of a practicable kind, nor as one which was likely to lead to a satisfactory result. I did not see how he proposed to provide himself with a well-fitting garment even when the two coats were sewn together. However, as Ted took off his coat, of course I took off mine. I had always regarded that man as my friend, and I was not going to desert him then. I have some consideration for the claims of friendship, whatever other men may have.

But the stranger was not content when he had got our coats.

"Take off your waistcoats," was his next demand.

Here Ted made a stand; not such a stand as I should have made—still, he made a stand.

"You really must excuse me, my dear sir, but if you wouldn't mind———"

"Strip!" roared the stranger.

And—well, I may say, in fact, I do say it, without the slightest hesitation, that if Ted had not stripped first, I should not have stripped: I should have remonstrated with that ruthless ruffian. I should have pointed out to him that there are circumstances which an escaped convict ought to consider even in the centre of Dartmoor. I should have done this in a manner which would have commended itself to his sense of what was right and what was wrong. But, as I have already pointed out, I am not a man to desert a friend, especially in the hour of his need. So, when Ted stripped, I stood to him, shoulder to shoulder, and I stripped too.

There was one thing—the weather was tolerably warm, and the spot was a secluded