“Don’t hit, don’t hit,” cried Dicky, “I’ve got him under!”
He had, in fact, got a knee on either arm of his opponent, and Mr Murphy, helpless as a baby, lay on the flat of his back staring up at his captor panting, and with a grin on his broad, red face.
“Now, you bounder,” cried Dicky, “what do you mean—eh!”
“Aisy, aisy!” gasped the recumbent one. “I gives in—sure, I was only makin’ a thry.”
“Which is the better man?” asked Dick.
“You, is, begorra!” cried Mr Murphy, with a genuine ring in his tone. “Let me up on me pins, and I’ll go aisy, but don’t be bindin’ me, or I’ll tear the house down.”
“Up you get,” said Dicky. “You know you have no chance with me, so I won’t bind you.”
“Faith, and I knew I was daelin’ wid a gintleman,” said the other, standing up and shaking himself. “Glory be to God, who’s this?”
It was General Grampound at the door in a dressing-gown. He held a flat candlestick in his hand; behind him, old James, the butler, and Uncle Molyneux appeared like shades.
“What’s all this?” cried the General. “What’s this infernal row? Why, God bless my soul, sir, do you know in whose house you are? Who’s that ruffian? What’s the groom doing here? What’s that rope?”