“Well, sir, it’s a bad job this, too,” the man said, with a twinkle in his eye; for he had heard the colloquy at the cutting, and guessed that Frank would be the reverse of angry.
“Well, out with it, man; what’s he been doing?” Frank said, impatiently—“fighting?”
“Fighting ain’t no name for it, gaffer—knocking a gentleman down, knocking two of his front teeth out, and then giving it him with his own whip, till there ain’t a whole place on his face where I could lay the top of my little finger.”
“Good gracious!” Frank exclaimed; “why he must have gone mad. He couldn’t have been drinking. There was not time for that; besides, I never knew him drink. What the deuce could have possessed him? What had the gentleman done?”
“Well, it was all the gent’s own fault, gaffer; I must say that for Holl. The gentleman asked Holl to hold his horse, and the lad wouldn’t do it, and gave him cheek. So the gentleman, he up with his whip and hit Holl across the face, and Holl went at him like mad, and gave him one on the mouth which, as I said, master, knocked two of his teeth out, and cut his face right open; and then he took the whip, and he cut him about with it, till his face is—my eye! I can’t tell you what his face isn’t like.”
“Well, it served him right; that is, a thrashing would have served him right; but not such a tremendous licking as this. And what’s become of Evan?”
“He started across the fields for Sheffield, master. He said he would be at the station to meet you in the morning; and it’s well he is, for the police are out all over the place for him.”
“It’s very tiresome,” said Frank; “but who is this unfortunate man who has got this tremendous licking?”
“Well, master,” and again the man’s eyes twinkled; “his name is Mr. Frederick Bingham.”
“What!” shouted Frank; “do you mean to say it’s Fred Bingham?”