Saint sprang to the attack. Now, Uncle, the sly old campaigner, had foreseen this opening. He knew well enough the advantage of a first blow. He knew, also, that Saint, out of condition as he was, might end a fight at close quarters in thirty seconds. Within one minute, so Uncle reckoned, Saint would have lost fifty per cent of energy and endurance. With a gay laugh he dashed the ale he had so valiantly refrained from drinking in Saint's face.
"That'll cool 'ee," said Uncle, as he side-stepped as gracefully as a dancing-master.
Saint was half-blinded, but now well aware that Uncle meant business. He must "finish" him at once, inflict a "knock-out" blow. He charged again, head down, like an infuriated bull. Sober reflection might have warned him that Uncle's arms were longer than his. Uncle raised the tankard and brought it down hard upon a thick skull. Saint fell to the floor, stunned. The young woman screamed out:
"You've killed him!"
Uncle laughed pleasantly:
"Not me. I only tapped 'un. Don't 'ee be afeard, my dear. He'll live to make 'ee miserable. I hopes as I ain't hurt this handsome tankard." He examined it. "No. 'Tis ale-tight yet. I sees a dent though. 'Twill serve, like rosemary, for remembrance. Ah-h-h! He be comin' to."
Saint raised his head, but remained huddled up on the sanded floor, rubbing his head and staring at the grinning faces about him. Uncle addressed him with courtesy.
"Willum Saint, I be a marciful man. There be many here as could testify and swear by the Book as you assaulted and batteried me, but I won't have the law on 'ee. More, never again will I call 'ee Saint Willum. For why?—your immortial soul be too lean. I means to call 'ee, after this memorable day, Mr. Sinner. And now, Mr. Sinner, I takes myself off to the Pomfret Arms, and my friends go wi' me."
Three out of the five other men rose solemnly, and called for their reckoning. The two that remained might have done so had they possessed cash in their pockets.
Uncle took off his hat to the young woman, and bowed politely: