Captain Baster glared at him with unbelieving eyes and gasped: “I—I made sure it was that young whelp!”
This sudden violent entry of a bold but disheveled hussar produced a natural confusion; Mrs. Dangerfield, Sir Maurice and the Terror sprang to their feet, asking with one voice what had befallen him.
Captain Baster sank heavily on to a chair and instantly sprang up from it with a howl as he chanced on several tokens of the gorse-bush’s clinging affection.
“I’ve been stoned—stoned by some hulking scoundrels on the common!” he cried; and he displayed the considerable bump rising on his marble brow.
Mrs. Dangerfield was full of concern and sympathy; Sir Maurice was cool, interested but cool; he did not blaze up into the passionate indignation of a bosom friend.
“How many of them were there?” said the Terror.
“From the number of stones they threw I should think there were a dozen,” said Captain Baster; and he panted still.
The Terror looked puzzled.
“I know—I know what it is!” cried Mrs. Dangerfield with an illuminating flash of womanly intuition. “You’ve been humorous with some of the villagers!”
“No, no! I haven’t joked with a single one of them!” cried Captain Baster. “But I’ll teach the scoundrels a lesson! I’ll put the police on them tomorrow morning. I’ll send for a detective from London. I’ll prosecute them.”