"So that's the blooming name of the blooming place where your people live, is it? And who may your people be, if you please, and what is your business with them?"
"What, the deuce, does that matter to you?" the other answered, trying to ruffle, yet shrinking away nervously, while the wind, gathering force again, whipped his legs and back, showing the lines of his wasted, large-boned frame through his thin, light-colored clothing.
"As it happens, it matters very much to me," Challoner retorted, "because some very particular friends of mine live at the Tower House. It may amuse you to hear I have just come from there, and that you very certainly can't gain access to the Tower House without my permission, and that I very certainly shall not give that permission. Young gentlemen of your particular kidney aren't required there. The men-servants would kick you out, and quite properly. We know how to treat loafers and tippling impostors who try to sponge upon gentlewomen here in England.—Now come along with me. I'll see you as far as the tram-line, and pay your fare to Barryport, and you can go on board your onion-boat again. Also I'll telephone through to the central police station directly I get home and give the Stourmouth and Barryport police a little description of you. So step out, if you please. No malingering."
As he finished speaking Challoner grasped the young man solidly by the shoulder, propelling him forward, but the latter, slippery as an eel, wriggled himself free.
"Let go, you great hulking beast!" he cried. "I'm not an impostor. I'm William Smyrthwaite, and my sister Joanna means to provide for me. I know all about that. A chap who I ran across three days ago in Rouen told me. We always were chummy in the old days, Nannie and I. She'll tell you I'm speaking the truth fast enough, and make you look d—d silly. She'll recognize and acknowledge me, see if she don't!"
"Upon my word, I'm afraid she's not likely to have an opportunity of doing anything of the kind, poor lady," Challoner returned; and he laughed at his own rather horrible joke. "So come along, Mr. Who-ever-you-are, alias William Smyrthwaite, Esq. I begin to think I'd better see you safe on board your precious onion-boat myself, and have you affectionately looked after till she sails. It may save both of us trouble."
"You beast, you cursed, great, shiny, black devil!" Bibby shouted. And he clawed and struck at his tormentor passionately.
The first touch of those striking, clawing hands let the underlying wild animal loose in Challoner. A primitive lust of fight took him, along with a savage joy in the act of putting forth his own immense physical strength. Still, at first, his temper remained fairly under control, and he played with his adversary, feinted and parried. But the wretched boy did not fight fair. He indulged in sneaking, tricky dodges learned amid the moral and social filth of the Paris under-world and in South American gambling hells and doss-houses. Soon Challoner lost his temper, saw his chance, took it; delivered one blow, straight from the shoulder, which, landing on Bibby's temple, dropped him like so much lead on the rain-washed flints of the crown of the pathway. Then he stood breathing heavily, his eyes bloodshot, the veins standing out like cords on his forehead, the intoxication of battle at once stupefying and maddening him.
Presently Bibby's limbs twitched; and, as though moved by a spring, he sat bolt upright, his elbows set back, his hands, the thick-jointed fingers wide apart, raised to the level of his shoulders.
"He's done me in, the clumsy, murderous brute!" he panted. Then childishly whimpering—"Nannie," he wailed, "poor old Nannie, so you're dead too. Golly, what a sell! Never mind. I'm just coming."