Letty nodded. "I can stay here."
George leapt the palings and ran. The dark spot ran too, but in queer leaps and bounds. There was the sound of a scuffle, then George returned, dragging something or someone behind him.
"I knew it," he said, panting, as he came within earshot of his wife; "it was that young ruffian, Mary Batchelor's grandson! Now you stand still, will you? I could hold two of the likes of you with one hand. Madan!"
He had but just parted from his manager on the path which led sideways up the "bank," and waited anxiously to see if his voice would reach the Scotchman's ears. But no one replied. He shouted again; then he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly towards the pit, holding the struggling lad all the time.
At the same moment a couple of heavily built men, evidently colliers, came down the road from the village. George at once called to them from across the palings.
"Here, you there! this young rascal has been throwing a lump of dirt at Lady Tressady, and has hit her badly on the arm. Will you two just walk him up to the police-station for me, while I take my wife home?"
The two men stopped and stared at the lady by the railings and at Sir George holding the boy, whose white but grinning face was just visible in the growing dusk.
"Noa," said one of them at last, "it's noa business ov ourn—is it, Bill?"
"Noa," said the other, stolidly; and on they tramped.
"Oh, you heroes!" George flung after them. "Attacking a woman in the dark is about what you understand!—Madan!"