“Steady on, young man,” said a voice, and he was seized from behind. He turned—to discover himself in the grip of a second golfer....
Another! Bealby fought in a fury of fear....
He bit an arm—rather too tweedy to feel much—and got in a couple of shinners—alas! that they were only slippered shinners!—before he was overpowered....
A cuffed, crumpled, disarmed and panting Bealby found himself watching the careful extraction of the first golfer from the front wheel. Two friends assisted that gentleman with a reproachful gentleness, and his repeated statements that he was all right seemed to reassure them greatly. Altogether there were now four golfers in the field, counting the pioneer.
“He was after this devil of a boy,” said the one who held Bealby.
“Yes, but how did he get here?” asked the man who was gripping Bealby.
“Feel better now?” said the third, helping the first comer to his uncertain feet. “Let me have your cleek o, man.... You won’t want your cleek....”
Across the heather, lifting their heads a little, came Mrs. Bowles and Mrs. Geedge, returning from their walk. They were wondering whoever their visitors could be.
And then like music after a dispute came Madeleine Philips, a beautiful blue-robed thing, coming slowly with a kind of wonder on her face, out of the caravan and down the steps. Instinctively everybody turned to her. The drunkard with a gesture released himself from his supporter and stood erect. His cap was replaced upon him—obliquely. His cleek had been secured.
“I heard a noise,” said Madeleine, lifting her pretty chin and speaking in her sweetest tones. She looked her enquiries....