“A lot to do with me,” he cried. “Is it Chater?”
“What if it is? Let me go, damn you!”
“Let you go! I've been itching for you for weeks! What have you been saying to Miss Humfray?”
“Damn you! Take off your hand! She's a friend of yours, is she?”
My furious George choked: “Engaged to me.” Further bit upon his passion he could not brook. He brought his free hand down with a crash upon the face twisted up at him; relaxed his hold; ran round the seat—those brown hands clenched.
If Bob Chater at no time had aching desire for a brawl, he was at least no coward: here the events he had suffered well sufficed to whip his blood to action. He sprang to his feet, was upon them as George, sideways to him, came round the arm of the seat; lunged furiously and landed a crack upon the cheekbone that spun George staggering up the path.
It was a good blow, a lusty blow—straight from the shoulder and with body and leg work behind it; a blow that, happier placed, might well have won the battle.
A ring upon Bob's finger cut the flesh he struck, and he gave a savage “Ha!” of triumph as he saw George go spinning and the red trickle come breaking down his cheek.
A great ridge in the gravel marked the thrust of foot with which George stayed his stagger, from which he impelled the savage spring that brought him within striking distance.
There was no science. This was no calmly prepared fight with cool brains directing attack, searching weak points, husbanding strength, deft in defence. Here was only the animal instinct to get close and wound; to grapple and wound again.