And the injured gentleman, neither looking nor feeling at all well, pulled himself together and sprang to his feet.
Jill was there, clinging to her champion. “Run away, Jill!” said Armstrong.
“But you have only one arm,” said she. “Go, Jill!” said he, so decisively that the little maid, darting only one look behind her, fled towards the house.
All she saw was the two men facing one another—one flurried, vicious, and noisy; the other curious, silent, disgusted.
“You dog!” hissed Ratman, with an oath, “what do you mean by that?”
“My meaning should have been clear—it was intended to be.”
Ratman tried hard to copy his adversary’s composure, but failed miserably.
With many imprecations, and, heedless of the tutor’s maimed condition, he threw himself upon him.
But Robert Ratman’s boxing, like his running, was a trifle out of date, and once more he found himself on his back regarding the clouds as they flitted by overhead.
This time the tutor assumed the initiative.