“Had enough?” George panted. “Had enough? Are you whipped, you swine?”
Bob assiduously brushed.
“When you're better, let me know,” George cried; turned and hurried up the path whither Mary had disappeared.
The forced draught of fury, pain, and exertion sent Bob's breath roaring in and out in noisy blasts—now long and laboured, now spasmodic quick.
He examined his bill of health and damage. Face everywhere tender to the touch; clothes dust-covered and torn; both knees of trousers rent; silk hat stove in when in a backward rush he had set his foot upon it. His tongue discovered a broken tooth, his handkerchief a bleeding nose, his fingers blood upon his chin, trickling to his shirt front.
So well as might be he brushed his person; straightened his hat; clapped handkerchief to his mouth; past staring eyes, grinning faces, hurried out of the Park to bury himself in a cab.
V.
From a window Mrs. Chater saw the bruised figure of her darling boy alight; with palpitating heart rushed to greet him.
“Bob! My boy! My boy! What has happened?”
Her boy brushed past; bounded to his room. Laboriously, sick with fear, the devoted mother toiled in pursuit—found him in his room tearing off his coat.