He extended one hand, as if to grasp the curate’s collar, and raised his hunting-whip menacingly; but in an instant it was whisked out of his hand, and sent flying.
“You object to my white tie and black coat, eh, Tom Candlish?” said the curate, rapidly throwing them off and across a neighbouring oak branch; “there, then, for the time being they shall not afflict your eyes or put me out of your reach. Now then, we are on equal terms. Strip off that scarlet coat, you miserable popinjay.”
“What do you mean?” cried Tom Candlish, turning mottled in the face.
“I mean, sir, that words are no use to such a scoundrel as you: that a curate is also a man. In this case he is the lady’s brother, and in addition there are a score of insults to wipe away. Take off your coat.”
“What!” cried Tom Candlish, with a sneering laugh. “Look here—do you know that I can fight?”
“I know you were in a blackguardly prize-fight, sir, in a ring where your opponent was a sort of champion of the Bilston colliers.”
“Yes, so put on your coat and go home while you’re safe.”
“And I know that I have not clenched my fist in anger, sir, since I left Oxford, twelve years ago; but if you had beaten Tom Sayers it would not move me now. One of us two does not leave this wood without a sound thrashing, and, please goodness, that’s going to be you.”
The Reverend Hartley Salis, M.A., rapidly rolled up his shirt-sleeves over his white arms; while it was observable that the nearly new scarlet hunting-coat worn by handsome Tom Candlish, of Candlish Hall, came off very slowly, possibly on account of its excellent fit.