Colin was full of fury, but it was the frigid sort.
“What the deuce do you want?” said Symington at last, and his hand stole behind him. His recent pleasure-hunt had included visits to one or two rather queer corners of London town, down by the docks.
“What you want is a thrashing,” answered Colin, “and I’m here to give it you.”
Symington’s complexion went from scarlet to grey.
“What the —— do you mean by intruding here? If you don’t clear out—” His hand went up with a glitter. “Out of this, you young fool, or by—”
Swish! Like a flash the whangee cane smote his knuckles. With a cry he let drop the weapon. Colin kicked it across the room.
Hissing with wrath and pain, Symington sprang up and made a dash for the bell. No use! He was seized by the collar, shaken vigorously, then dragged to the table in the centre of the room, from which the dessert had not been removed. Mercilessly he was thrown across it, his face in a dish of raisins, and in that undignified position, vainly struggling, he received a most painful chastisement.
Often afterwards Colin, whose weight and muscle were nothing exceptional, would wonder how on earth he had managed to handle successfully a heavy man like Symington; but love and hate combined with honest rage gave him, for the time being, the strength of three, and moreover his victim was flabby after a long debauch.
The noise of the caning coupled with the involuntary exclamations of the sufferer were, however, not long in attracting attention, and a knock on the door warned Colin that it was time to desist. Putting his whole heart into a final cut, which brought forth a yelp of anguish, he loosed his grip, saying rather breathlessly—
“That is the reply to your anonymous notes, Mr. Symington, and if you want to call the police now, pray do so.”