But he forced himself not to credit it, and struck out with all his might.
“I don’t believe it,” he roared, “a gentleman wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“But he aren’t a gent,” said the first lad, coming on again, with his lips bleeding. “Promised to pay us well, and he weant.”
“Come and show them it’s all a lie, Dis,” cried Vane, breathlessly. “Come and help me.”
But Distin never stirred. He only stood glaring at the scene before him, his lips drawn from his white teeth, and his whole aspect betokening that he was fascinated by the fight.
“Do you hear?” roared Vane at last, hoarsely. “You’re never going to be such a coward as to let them serve me as they did before.”
Still Distin did not stir, and a burst of rage made the blood flush to Vane’s temples, as he ground his teeth and raged out with:
“You miserable, contemptible cur!”
He forgot everything now. All sense of fear—all dread of being beaten by two against one—was gone, and as if he had suddenly become possessed with double his former strength, he watchfully put aside several of the fierce blows struck at him, and dodged others, letting his opponents weary themselves, while he husbanded his strength.
It was hard work, though, to keep from exposing himself in some fit of blind fury, for the lads, by helping each other, kept on administering stinging blows, every one of which made Vane grind his teeth, and long to rush in and close with one or the other of his adversaries.