As they passed down the street, with Jem rolling and shouting and singing between them, he saw a gentleman in the starlight, coming along the slope toward them.
It was Leicester, who, disgusted and dissatisfied, had turned out for a walk. He saw the group of three, and was about to pass on without recognizing them, but Willie's figure, stalwart and huge, was too well known to pass unrecognized, and Leicester, with his usual kindness, said, gravely:
"Late to-night, Willie! Good-night."
This was just what the two men dreaded. At the sound of the voice which he hated above all, the drunken man started and threw up his head.
"Who's that?" he snarled, hoarsely, staring before him with thick and bloodshot eyes. "Who's that? That's his voice, I'll swear."
"Come on," said Nat, giving him an angry jerk, "come on, and don't make a fool of yourself, Starling."
"I shan't," said Jem, with an oath. "I will stop and look at him. I'm a dog, I am, but a dog can look at a king—ah, and bite, too. D'ye hear that?" he shouted out to Leicester, who had walked on with the greatest indifference. That same indifference seemed to madden the miserable Jem, and, by a sudden jerk, whose very unexpectedness gave it greater force, he wrenched himself away from his keepers and sprang down the path after Leicester.
Leicester heard him coming, and turned round ready to receive him.
With a snarl Jem sprang at him.
Leicester raised his hand and knocked him down.