the late governor of the Colony, and a man of wealth and consideration in not only his native town of Plymouth, but in all the country round, even as far as Boston.
Invited to a festive occasion at the house of his step-brother, Constant Southworth, the major had donned holiday array, and especially adorned himself with his new scarlet roquelaure, embroidered in gold thread and fastened with a silver clasp.
Now, Major Bradford was not a fool, and unfortunately highway robbery was by no means an uncommon occurrence, even in the Old Colony, at that date; so, seeing one man carrying a heavy saddle-portmanteau rush out of a wood, with flying reins and disordered air, and another pursuing him with a leveled pistol in his hand, the major understood the case as well as if he had been present throughout, understood, but unfortunately had no means of interfering, except the slight dress sword he wore at his side, a weapon quite useless, unless the highwayman would consent to pause and meet it.
"Halt, you rascal!" shouted the major, and as he shouted, the east wind, which that day tore madly in from sea, seized and filled out his scarlet roquelaure with such sudden fury as to drag one side of the great silver clasp from its fastening, and tear the whole garment from the major's shoulders, filling it out and lifting it for one moment like a great collapsed balloon, and then with a sharp gust, too much like elfish laughter, tossing it into the face of the highwayman and around
