It was Simms who sat down, flung away by Jones.
Then Cavendish pinioned him from behind, the Duke of Melford shouted directions, Simms scrambled to his feet, and Jones, having won free of Cavendish, the rough and tumble began.
They fought all over the drawing-room, upsetting jardinières, little tables, costly china.
Jones’ foot went into a china cabinet carrying destruction amongst a concert party of little Dresden figures; Simms’ portly behind bumped against a pedestal, bearing a portrait bust of the nineteenth Countess of Rochester, upsetting pedestal and smashing bust, and the Duke of Melford, fine old sportsman that he was, assisting in the business with the activity of a boy of eighteen, received a kick in the shin that recalled Eton across a long vista of years.
Then at last they had him down on a sofa, his hands tied behind his back with the Duke’s bandanna handkerchief.
Jones had uttered no cry, the others no sound, but the bumping and banging and smashing had been heard all over the house. A tap came to the door and a voice. The Duke rushed to the door and opened it.
“Nothing,” said he, “nothing wrong. Off with you.”
He shut the door and turned to the couch.
Jones caught a glimpse of himself in a big mirror, happily un-smashed, caught a glimpse of himself all tumbled and towsled with Simms beside him and Cavendish standing by, re-fixing his glasses.
He recognised a terrible fact; though he had smashed hundreds of pounds’ worth of property, though he had fought these men like a mad bull, now that the fight was over, they showed not the least sign of resentment. Simms was patting his shoulder.