There were eight or ten men in that longboat, headed toward me with rapid, powerful strokes. I wondered just then what their purpose might be in coming ashore here, at just this time. Then I caught clearer sight of their leader, an evil-looking ruffian. The man was staring at me, grinning, rubbing his knuckles. Somewhere, my imp chuckled.

It bothered me, the way the man stared—not so much his general mien and apparent intent, as the fact that I seemed the object of his entire attention. I could not help but feel that their purpose in bringing the boat ashore, right now, right here, was only to do me some strange harm. A feeling—irrational, yet unshakable—filled me: They wanted me, and they had somehow known that this was where I would be this evening.

Fog blew between us as they reached the shallows, and I heard them shipping oars, splashing over the gunwales, heard the grating of the boat's bottom as they drew it landward over pebbles and sand. I turned and bolted.

A cry went up at the fog's next parting, and I heard the sounds of pursuit. I turned inland, crashing through a thicket. The landing party followed, nearer now, trailing me easily.

"Hold up or we'll go harder with you!" called one of the men—the leader, I believe. This was all the inducement I needed to double and redouble my effort to escape.

Something grazed my shoulder—a thrown stone most likely—and the next cry sounded even nearer. I kept going, aware that someone was gaining on me. From the sounds of his breathing, the sounds of his passage, I could tell that he would be upon me in a moment.

I turned quickly and faced my pursuer, a swart, wiry fellow with a club in his right hand. He halted and drew back in apparent startlement at the unanticipated confrontation. I kicked immediately at his nearest kneecap, missed and struck his thigh. The leg gave way, and I stepped in, punched his throat and snatched away the club. Another, a shorter man with a nasty scar running from mouth to ear was rushing toward me, and I knew I could not escape him.