Bart Hodge was a fighter without a drop of cowardly blood in his well-developed body; but he had seen Defarge handle a rapier, and he knew he was not the equal of the wily French youth in that particular line. He could handle his fists, or shoot a pistol with great skill; but he was not an expert fencer, and so would be at a disadvantage in an encounter of this sort.
But it was useless to admit this to Defarge, whose eyes were glaring. Defarge would laugh exultantly and come on. Indeed, he was making ready to attack even now.
“Pick up the weapon!” commanded the French youth. “Do your best, for I’m going to pink you—I swear I am!”
Bertrand’s heart was full of mad joy, for he believed his opportunity to obtain revenge on Hodge for past grievances had come, and he meant to make the most of it. Laughing savagely, he started to advance.
Hodge’s hand rested on the back of a chair, and he had not altered his position when the other youth sprang to the wall and tore down the rapiers.
Now, without the least warning and with such strength and quickness as only a trained athlete could command, he grasped the chair with both hands, swung it aloft, and hurled it straight at Bertrand’s head.
Defarge had no time to dodge, but he put up his arm to protect his face, and the chair sent him reeling against the wall. Hodge followed the chair with two swift bounds, and was on the French youth instantly.
He grasped Bertrand’s right wrist with one hand and his throat with the other, pinning the fellow against the wall and holding him there.
“You devil’s whelp!” grated Hodge. “You would not hesitate at murder! I’ll guarantee that you land in prison yet!”
Defarge had been shocked by the impact of the chair, and for a few seconds he seemed quite helpless and unresisting. Then he suddenly gathered himself and tried to hurl Bart off.