"We'll have to work from another corner," Sidney Prale told himself. "I can't threaten a woman, but I can pummel a man; and if I meet George Lerton again, I am liable to forget what Jim Farland told me and use my own methods."
He walked on through the tiny ravine. He came to a cross path, and a man lurched down it and against him.
"Beg pardon!" Prale murmured.
"Wonder you wouldn't look where you're going!" the other exclaimed. "Got an idea you own the whole Park, or something like that? Men like you shouldn't be running around loose!"
"You ran into me, not I into you," Prale reminded him.
As he spoke, he looked at the other closely. He saw a gigantic man who had the general appearance of a thug, whose chin was thrust forward aggressively, and whose hands were opening and closing as if he wished they were around Sidney Prale's throat.
"I've a notion to smash you one!" the fellow said, advancing toward Prale a bit.
Prale's temper flamed at once. His own chin was shot forward, and his own hands closed.
"If that is the way you feel about it, start in!" Prale said. "Perhaps I can teach you to act decently and keep a civil tongue in your head!"
The man before him made no comment—he simply launched himself forward like a thunderbolt. Sidney Prale darted quickly to one side, and tossed his hat and stick on the ground. He did not have time to get off his coat; he could not even remove his gloves.