At that, Haverley leapt. Calculating with a boxer’s cunning the exact instant when his man would turn, he launched a blow for the angle of his jaw. The primitive, strong within him, ruled now supreme. But O’Hagan did not turn.
He stepped back upon Haverley, and stooped.
It is needless to quote the apposite precept of Shashu Myuku of Nagasaki (Dean of the College of Higher Jiu-jitsu) in order to make clear what happened. Haverley performed a complete somersault over O’Hagan’s arched back and fell, heaped up, crashing in the hearth.
Captain O’Hagan stepped to the door, and gained it as Haverley’s man hurriedly entered.
“You understand?” said O’Hagan. “I forbid you this lady’s company. If you dispute my right to do so, I shall expect your friends in the morning.”
Haverley, choking, shaken, got upon his feet. His white-faced man barred the door.
“Excuse me, sir . . .”
O’Hagan brushed him aside. He has a sweeping motion of the left arm which would remove a lifeguardsman from his path as effectively as the flick of a handkerchief brushes a fly from a bald head.
The man clutched at a buhl cabinet to save himself. Upon a discordant finale of smashing porcelain, intermingled with human cursing, Captain O’Hagan made his exit to the plaudit of the gods.
He is a master of effective curtains.