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‘Just as you like, young man,’ said the timber-merchant, as he coolly warded off the blows, ‘if you wish to have it this way too. But, I warn you, it isn’t a fair match. Sally, shut the door and go about your business.’

‘Shall I fetch a p’liceman, sir?’ shrilled the servant.

Her master, sufficiently restored to his senses to perceive that he had not the least chance in a pugilistic encounter with Mr. Lott, drew back and seemed to hesitate.

‘Answer the girl,’ said Mr. Lott, as he picked up his whip and examined its condition. ‘Shall we have a policeman in?’

‘Shut the door!’ Charles shouted fiercely.

The men gazed at each other. Daffy was pale and quivering; his hair in disorder, his waistcoat torn open, collar and necktie twisted into rags, he made a pitiful figure. The timber-merchant was slightly heated, but his countenance wore an expression of calm contentment.

‘For the present,’ remarked Mr. Lott, as he took up his hat and stick, ‘I think our business is at an end. It isn’t often that a fellow of your sort gets his deserts, and I’m rather sorry we didn’t have the policeman in; a report of the case might do good. I bid you good day, young man. If I were you I’d sit quiet for an hour or two, and just reflect–you’ve a lot to think about.’

So, with a pleasant smile, the visitor took his leave.

As he walked away he again examined the riding-whip. ‘It isn’t often a thing happens so luckily,’ he said to himself. ‘First-rate whip; hardly a bit damaged. Harry’ll like it none the worse for my having handselled it.’

At the station he found Mr. Daffy and Bowles, who regarded him with questioning looks.

‘Nothing to be got out of him,’ said Mr. Lott. ‘Bowles, I want a talk with you and Jane; it’ll be best, perhaps, if I go back home with you. Mr. Daffy, sorry we can’t travel down together. You’ll catch the eight o’clock.’

‘I hope you told him plainly what you thought of him,’ said Mr. Daffy, in a voice of indignant shame.

‘I did,’ answered the timber-merchant, ‘and I don’t think he’s very likely to forget it.’