“Now, then,” cried Joe, “what is it? You know you’re a-trespassing here?”
“You get out,” growled one of the men; and he thrust the sturdy young fellow roughly aside.
It was a mistake on the keeper’s part, for Joe Chegg’s father was a Bilston man, notorious in his time for the pugnacity of his life.
His mantle, or rather his disposition to take off his coat, had fallen upon his son, and the result of the rude thrust was that Joe Chegg rebounded so violently that the keeper went staggering back, and by the time he recovered, and his companion was about to join in the attack, Joe had proved himself to be the son of his father, for his coat was lying on the ground.
This was awkward. The keepers were accustomed to tussles with insane patients, and they were ready for a fight with Horace North, and to do anything to force him into the carriage waiting at the Manor House. But Joe Chegg was sane, sturdy, and had begun to square.
A fight with the stout young Warwick man was not in their instructions, and they called a parley.
“Look here, miss,” said the one who had been struck surlily; “just call your bulldog off. We don’t want no trouble, and you’re doing a very foolish thing; so let us do our dooty and go.”
As he spoke he advanced, but a feint from Joe made him flinch, though he gave the young fellow a very ugly look.
“This is an outrage,” cried Mary, rising and speaking now firmly. “What does it mean?”
“It means, madam,” said a voice, as the tall, dark medical man who had visited twice at the Manor now came upon the scene, after a very hurried walk through the meadows—“it means, madam,” he repeated, for he was breathless, “that Dr North is not in a fit condition to be at large.”