"In that case you can take back what you said about Jim Harley."
"What did I say?" asked the doctor, making a furtive step toward his trap.
Rayton advanced. "Quick!" he cried. "Call yourself a liar, or I'll try another prod at you!"
"Leave me alone. D—n you! I'll have the law on you for this. Keep off! Mind what you're about. Keep your distance, I say. Yes, yes! You're right. I'm a liar. I'm a liar!"
He jumped into his buggy, wakened Champion with a cut of the whip, and drove away at a gallop, leaving his hat and overcoat on the side of the road. For a minute Rayton stood and gazed after the bouncing vehicle. Then he picked up the hat and coat, and placed them on the top rail of the fence.
"That is the worst thing I ever saw in the way of a doctor," he said. "Most of them are mighty good fellows—and I didn't know before that any of them were quitters. But that chap? Why, he's a disgrace to a pill box. Hope he'll come back for his duds, though."
Mr. Reginald Baynes Rayton turned, and continued on his homeward way, swinging his feet well in front of him, and expanding his chest. But presently he lost the air of the conquering hero. Misgivings assailed him. He had picked a fight simply because he was in a bad temper. He had called a more or less harmless individual names, and then punched him in the jaw and forced him to call himself a liar.
"I'm ashamed of myself," he murmured. "What has become of my manners?"
He reached his house, and found Mr. Banks in the kitchen, still reflectively consuming tobacco.
"What's the matter with you, Reginald?" inquired the New Yorker. "You look excited."