If Mr. Figgins did not succeed in astonishing the company, he at least considerably astonished himself, for when he placed the flute to his lips and gave a vigorous preliminary blow, not only did he fail to elicit any musical sound, but he smothered and half-blinded himself with a dense cloud of flour, with which the tube had been entirely filled.
Bogey and Tinker, as usual, had been the real authors of this new atrocity, but Figgins felt convinced that the guilt lay at the door of Mole, on whom he turned for vengeance.
"Villain!" he cried, "this is another of your tricks; it's the last straw. I'll bear it no longer; take that."
As Mr. Figgins spoke, he struck the venerable Mole a sounding whack over the bald part of the cranium with the instrument of harmony.
Mole sprang upon his legs with astonishing alacrity, and, seizing Figgins by the throat, commenced shaking him.
A ferocious struggle ensued, among the remonstrances of the spectators, but, before they could interfere, it ended by both combatants coming down heavily and at their full length on the temporary dinner-table, and thereby breaking not a few plates, bottles, and glasses.
Helped to rise and seated on separate camp-stools, some distance apart, the two former friends, but now mortal foes, as soon as they could get their breath, sat fiercely shaking fists and hurling strong adjectives at each other.
"I'll have it out of you, you old villain!" cried Mole.
"And I'll have it out of you, you old rascal!" shrieked Figgins.
"We'll both have it out," added the tutor, "and the sooner the better. Name your place and your weapons."