He had picked up a clod of earth, and dashed it in George Ryle's face. The boy was not one to stand a gratuitous blow, and Mr. Christopher, before he knew what was coming, found himself on the ground. The girl, released, flew to the stile and scrambled over it. George stood his ground, waiting for Cris to get up; he was less tall and strong, but he would not run away.
Christopher Chattaway slowly gathered himself up. He was a coward; and fighting, when it came to close quarters, was not to his liking. Stone-throwing, water-squirting, pea-shooting—any annoyance that might safely be carried on at a distance—he was an adept in; but hand-to-hand fighting—Cris did not relish that.
"See if you don't suffer for this, George Ryle!"
George laughed good-humouredly, and sat down on the stile as before. Cris was dusting the earth off his clothes.
"You have called me a coward, and you have knocked me down. I'll enter it in my memorandum-book, George Ryle."
"Do," equably returned George. "I never knew any but cowards set upon girls."
"I'll set upon her again, if I catch her using this path. There's not a more impudent little wretch in the whole parish. Let her try it, that's all."
"She has a right to use this path as much as I have."
"Not if I choose to say she sha'n't use it. You won't have the right long."
"Oh, indeed!" said George. "What is to take it from me?"