Mr. Dick struggled to his feet and stumbled forward a few steps. Then his self-respect, the self-respect which is the birthright of every free-born Briton, asserted itself within him.
“I presume,” he said, speaking with a certain cold dignity, “that this beach is private property, and that I have trespassed by bathing here. If so, I offer my apologies; but I cannot refrain from saying at the same time that the aggressive violence of your conduct——”
Mr. Red pulled the trigger of the revolver. A bullet struck the water so close to Mr. Dick that his leg was splashed. He stopped short in his protest and waded as rapidly as possible towards the shore. He pushed his way through the seaweed and jellyfish and stood at last, a pitiful, dripping figure, on dry land.
“Go on,” said Mr. Red, fingering the revolver.
The fear of instant death impelled Mr. Dick over the sharp stones. He travelled rapidly for five or six yards, and then collapsed suddenly on to all-fours.
“Go on quickly,” said Mr. Red.
Mr. Dick went on as quickly as he could on his hands and feet. He looked like a large hairless ape of some bleached kind. Then, overcome by the pain of both hands and feet, he sat down and faced Mr. Red.
“This is an outrage,” he said. “I protest against it in the strongest possible manner. You have absolutely no right——”
“Get up,” said Mr. Red, “and precede me to the house.”
Mr. Dick got up with a groan. He was really suffering considerably. The Berseker spirit, active in him during an earlier part of the day, was almost dead. He staggered on a few steps. Then a new notion seized him, a fear which was actually stronger than the fear of death. He understood suddenly that he was not, as he had boasted, a primitive man; that he was, on the contrary, highly civilized. He turned on Mr. Red and faced the revolver without a tremor.