Enraged beyond measure at the woods person, Mr. Belknap-Jackson yet retained a fine native caution which counselled him to attempt no violence upon that offender; but his mental tension was such that it could be relieved only by his attacking some one; preferably some one forbidden to retaliate. I walked there temptingly but a pace ahead of him, after my well-meant word of advice.
I make no defence of my own course. I am aware there can be none. I can only plead that I had already been vexed not a little by his unjust accusations of stupidity, and dismiss with as few words as possible an incident that will ever seem to me quite too indecently criminal. Briefly, then, with my well-intended “Best not lower yourself, sir,” Mr. Belknap-Jackson forgot himself and I forgot myself. It will be recalled that I was in front of him, but I turned rather quickly. (His belongings I had carried were widely disseminated.)
Instantly there were wild outcries from the others, who had started toward the main, or living house.
“He’s killed Charles!” I heard Mrs. Belknap-Jackson scream; then came the deep-chested rumble of the Mixer, “Jackson kicked him first!” They ran for us. They had reached us while our host was down, even while my fist was still clenched. Now again the unfortunate man cried “Help!” as his wife assisted him to his feet.
“Send for an officer!” cried she.
“The man’s an anarchist!” shouted her husband.
“Nonsense!” boomed the Mixer. “Jackson got what he was looking for. Do it myself if he kicked me!”
“Oh, Maw! Oh, Mater!” cried her daughter tearfully.
“Gee! He done it in one punch!” I heard Cousin Egbert say with what I was aghast to suspect was admiration.
Mrs. Effie, trembling, could but glare at me and gasp. Mercifully she was beyond speech for the moment.