No one, of course, could maintain for one moment that Andy was the right sort of parson.
“All very well to talk,” sneered the young man, sticking a crimson face close to Andy’s. “Do, then I’ll believe you! Parsons”—(he used adjectives)—“we’ll soon have done with parsons in this country” (and he used adjectives again).
“I’ll fight you,” said Andy slowly, “if you’ll promise to marry her if I win.”
“If you win, I will,” panted the young man. “I can safely promise that. But you daren’t. You’ll get me to start and have me up for assault. I know you.”
He thrust his face so near that his rough moustache tickled Andy’s nose and that was enough.
Andy began to take off his coat.
Then, for a few moments, ensued an unseemly and unchristian scene which no friend of the Vicar of Gaythorpe would wish to dwell on.
According to all the laws of fiction Andy ought to have come off victorious, but, as a matter of fact, he was badly beaten, and it was only by a fluke that he managed to give his opponent a black eye in return for his own damaged wrist.
The big young man silently watched him struggling to put on his coat, then, with a hand over the injured eye, assisted him into it.
“Do you know I’m the best boxer for ten miles round?” he asked grimly.