But instead of complying, Sir John gave a sudden twist to the bit, whereupon the plump and somnolent steed waked to sudden action, insomuch that Mr. Sturton was nearly unseated and his hat tumbled off; whereupon Sir John deftly skewered it upon the end of his stick and tossed it over the hedge; and old Penelope, watching its brief flight, uttered a single screech of laughter and was immediately silent again.
Mr. Sturton, having quieted his horse, raised his stick and struck viciously, but Sir John, deftly parrying the blow, answered it with a thrust, a lightning riposte that took his aggressor full upon fleshy chin. Mr. Sturton dropped his stick, clapped hand to chin and, seeing his own blood, spurred madly upon Sir John, who, in escaping the lashing hoofs, tripped and fell into the ditch.
“Let that learn ye!” cried Mr. Sturton, exultantly shaking his fist. “A ditch is the proper place for you, my lad.... I only hope as you’ve broke a bone.”
“Thank you,” answered Sir John, sitting up, and groping for his hat, “I find myself very well, for:
Though in posture unheroic
You behold me still a stoic.
And, further, here’s a truth, sir, which is:
There are places worse than ditches!
Indeed, Mr. Sturton,” he added, leaning back in the ditch and folding his arms, “’tis in my mind that you may find yourself yearning passionately for a good, dry ditch one o’ these days.”