“Art tha sure o' that?” he demanded. “Tha wert so ready wi' thy gab about th' Davys this mornin' I thowt happen tha'd loike to say summat more if a mon ud gi' yo' a chance. But happen agen yo're one o' th' soart as sticks to gab an' goes no further.”
Derrick's eyes blazed, he flung out his open hand in a contemptuous gesture.
“Out of the way,” he said, in a suppressed voice, “and let me pass.”
But Lowrie only came nearer.
“Nay, but I wunnot,” he said, “until I've said my say. Tha wert goin' to mak' me obey th' rules or let th' mesters hear on it, wert tha? Tha wert goin' to keep thy eye on me, an' report when th' toime come, wert tha? Well, th' toime has na come yet, and now I'm goin' to gi' thee a thrashin'.”
He sprang upon him with a ferocity which would have flung to the earth any man who had not possessed the thews and sinews of a lion. Derrick managed to preserve his equilibrium. After the first blow, he could not control himself. Naturally, he had longed to thrash this fellow soundly often enough, and now that he had been attacked by him, he felt forbearance to be no virtue. Brute force could best conquer brute nature. He felt that he would rather die a thousand deaths than be conquered himself. He put forth all his strength in an effort that awakened the crowd—which had speedily surrounded them, Owd Sammy among the number—to wild admiration.
“Get thee unto it, lad,” cried the old sinner in an ecstasy of approbation, “Get thee unto it! Tha'rt shapin' reet I see. Why, I'm dom'd,” slapping his knee as usual—“I'm dom'd if he is na goin' to mill Dan Lowrie!”
To the amazement of the by-standers, it became evident in a very short time, that Lowrie had met his match. Finding it necessary to defend himself, Derrick was going to do something more. The result was that the breathless struggle for the mastery ended in a crash, and Lowrie lay upon the pavement, Fergus Derrick standing above him pale, fierce and panting.
“Look to him,” he said to the men about him, in a white heat, “and remember that the fellow provoked me to it. If he tries it again, I will try again too.” And he turned on his heel and walked away.
He had been far more tolerant, even in his wrath, than most men would have been, but he had disposed of his enemy effectually. The fellow lay stunned upon the ground. In his fall, he had cut his head upon the curbstone, and the blood streamed from the wound when his companions crowded near, and raised him. Owd Sammy Craddock offered no assistance; he leaned upon his stick, and looked on with grim satisfaction.