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offered to hit you, and if I was him, I'd hit you now."
"All right, then," said Charlie, with a sudden change of front and
springing to his feet. "If I must, I must. Now, then!" At that,
Hoopdriver, the child of Fate, rose too, with a horrible sense that his
internal monitor was right. Things had taken a turn. He had made a mess
of it, and now there was nothing for it, so far as he could see, but to
hit the man at once. He and Charlie stood six feet apart, with a
table between, both very breathless and fierce. A vulgar fight in
a public-house, and with what was only too palpably a footman! Good
Heavens! And this was the dignified, scornful remonstrance! How the
juice had it all happened? Go round the table at him, I suppose. But
before the brawl could achieve itself, the man in gaiters intervened.
"Not here," he said, stepping between the antagonists. Everyone was
standing up.
"Charlie's artful," said the little man with the beard.
"Buller's yard," said the man with the gaiters, taking the control
of the entire affair with the easy readiness of an accomplished
practitioner. "If the gentleman DON'T mind." Buller's yard, it seemed,
was the very place. "We'll do the thing regular and decent, if
you please." And before he completely realized what was happening,
Hoopdriver was being marched out through the back premises of the inn,
to the first and only fight with fists that was ever to glorify his
life.
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