battered to a pulp. He knew this was the uttermost folly, to stand up

here and be pounded, but the way out of it was beyond his imagining. Yet

afterwards--? Could he ever face her again? He patted his Norfolk jacket

and took his ground with his back to the gate. How did one square? So?

Suppose one were to turn and run even now, run straight back to the

inn and lock himself into his bedroom? They couldn't make, him come

out--anyhow. He could prosecute them for assault if they did. How did

one set about prosecuting for assault? He saw Charles, with his face

ghastly white under the moon, squaring in front of him.

He caught a blow on the arm and gave ground. Charles pressed him. Then

he hit with his right and with the violence of despair. It was a hit of

his own devising,--an impromptu,--but it chanced to coincide with the

regulation hook hit at the head. He perceived with a leap of exultation

that the thing his fist had met was the jawbone of Charles. It was the

sole gleam of pleasure he experienced during the fight, and it was quite

momentary. He had hardly got home upon Charles before he was struck

in the chest and whirled backward. He had the greatest difficulty in

keeping his feet. He felt that his heart was smashed flat. "Gord

darm!" said somebody, dancing toe in hand somewhere behind him. As Mr.

Hoopdriver staggered, Charles gave a loud and fear-compelling cry. He

seemed to tower over Hoopdriver in the moonlight. Both his fists were

whirling. It was annihilation coming--no less. Mr. Hoopdriver ducked

perhaps and certainly gave ground to the right, hit, and missed. Charles

swept round to the left, missing generously. A blow glanced over Mr.

Hoopdriver's left ear, and the flanking movement was completed.

201

The Wheels of Chance