Landon glanced him over from head to foot—the moonbeams fell brightly on his athletic figure and handsome face—then turned on his heel.
"No, I won't!" he said, curtly—"I've done all I want to do for to-night. I've shaken you like the puppy you are! To-morrow we'll settle our differences."
For all answer Clifford sprang at him and struck him smartly across the face. In another moment both men were engaged in a fierce tussle, none the less deadly because so silent. A practised boxer and wrestler, Clifford grappled more and more closely with the bigger but clumsier man, dragging him steadily inch by inch further away from the house as they fought. More desperate, more determined became the struggle, till by two or three adroit manoeuvres Clifford got his opponent under him and bore him gradually to the ground, where, kneeling on his chest, he pinned him down.
"Let me go!" muttered Landon—"You're killing me!"
"Serve you right!" answered Clifford—"You scoundrel! My uncle shall know of this!"
"Tell him what you like!" retorted Landon, faintly—"I don't care! Get off my chest!—you're suffocating me!"
Clifford slightly relaxed the pressure of his hands and knees.
"Will you apologise?" he demanded.
"Apologise?—for what?"
"For your insolence to me and my cousin."