But George’s senses had left him. He flew at Abner, raining desperate blows at his head.
‘George! You’ll kill him!’ Mary screamed.
Abner had picked up a chair and protected himself as best he could. For a second the two men stood staring at one another, panting for breath. Then another gust of anger swept over George and he made for Abner again. Mary tried to throw herself between them, but Abner flung her aside. The legs of the chair were splintered under George’s blows. He continued to lash out, and it was as much as Abner could do to defend himself. He saw that the man’s flushed brain meant murder, nothing less. Somehow he must put an end to this madness. George’s hobnails slithered on the stone flags. Abner took his chance, and timed his blow. George went down with a groan: his poker sang like a tuning fork on the floor.
‘Abner, Abner, what have you done?’ Mary cried. She ran to George and bent over him, pulling up his head. Abner, with black blood dripping from a bruised vein on his forehead, stood back. The corners of his mouth twitched with his violent breathing: he still held his chair uplifted.
‘It was him or me,’ he panted.
‘He’s dead! You’ve killed him!’
‘Not he! That sort don’t die.’
But he himself was anxious for a moment and stooped over George’s body, breathing heavily.
‘No. He’s all right,’ he said. ‘Just knocked out. I’ve been like that myself.’
‘What can we do?’ she cried, staring at him with frightened eyes.