A BRUSH WITH REFUGEES

few yards of the road he had hoped to gain, and
perhaps more besides if his wagon were backed, he raised
his whip and would have brought it down on the
Major's head, if the latter had not shot up a hand
and caught the thick wrist in an iron grip. They
stood for a moment glaring at each other as only
mortal enemies can, strangely disproportionate in bulk,
the Major looking like a terrier about to fling himself
at the throat of an infuriated bull.

Instead he suddenly hurled the fellow's wrist from
his grasp. A new idea seized him during that moment
when he stared deep into the Fleming's eyes. He
divined there the absolute panic that held possession
of the man. Sheer blind panic that rendered him
completely impervious to reason or argument. Terror
of the Germans had half-demented him. There was
only one way to tackle him, and that was to instil
into his mind a more powerful and immediate fear
that would, for the time being, drive the other into
abeyance.

With an unhurried deliberation that he hoped would
not be without effect, the Major drew his revolver.
He pulled back his sleeve and thrust his wrist-watch
under the nose of the Fleming.

" If you haven't backed your wagon out of my
way in one minute from now, I intend to shoot you,"
he said sternly.

For some seconds he watched the progress of the
struggle that was being waged within the other's mind,
the battle of contending terrors, and wondered what
he should do if, after all, his device did not succeed.
He knew, of course, that he would not shoot the
fellow, though at the same time his hatred was so
intense that he felt nothing would give him greater
pleasure, As the watch ticked away, in order to
speed up matters, he raised his revolver slowly tall

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