Fay poised on tiptoes, drew back his right fist and sent it home with the tendons of his legs strained in the effort. His weight, his rage, his science and clean living were in that blow. It milled the brute, staggered and brought him crashing, first to his knees, then over on his back, where he lay with his swollen face turned toward the ceiling.
Little Emily glided to the door. She waited with her eyes fixed and shimmering.
Fay breathed deeply. He turned, unrolled his silk sleeves and said:
“Will—you—get my hat and coat and cane, please?”
Little Emily helped him on with his coat. Her hands trembled.
“Now get your things. You’re going away from here.”
She returned within three minutes.
“I’m ready,” she said.
“You saw me knock him out?”
“Yes.”