“Well?” he said between his teeth.
An eight-stone-four champion of the world has many unusual experiences in his life, but he rarely encounters men who say “Well?” to him between their teeth. Mr. Shute eyed this freak with profound wonder.
“I’ll teach you to—to kiss young ladies!”
Mr. Shute removed his hat again and gave it another brush. This gave him the necessary time for reflection.
“I don’t need it,” he said. “I’ve graduated.”
“Put them up!” hissed Arthur.
Almost a shocked look spread itself over the pugilist’s face. So might Raphael have looked if requested to draw a pavement-picture.
“You aren’t speaking to ME?” he said, incredulously.
“Put them up!”
Maud, trembling from head to foot, was conscious of one overwhelming emotion. She was terrified—yes. But stronger than the terror was the great wave of elation which swept over her. All her doubts had vanished. At last, after weary weeks of uncertainty, Arthur was about to give the supreme proof. He was going to joust for her.
A couple of passers-by had paused, interested, to watch developments. You could never tell, of course. Many an apparently promising row never got any farther than words. But, glancing at Arthur’s face, they certainly felt justified in pausing.
Mr. Shute spoke.
“If it wasn’t,” he said, carefully, “that I don’t want trouble with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals I’d—”
He broke off, for, to the accompaniment of a shout of approval from the two spectators, Arthur had swung his right fist, and it had taken him smartly on the side of the head.
Compared with the blows Mr. Shute was wont to receive in the exercise of his profession, Arthur’s was a gentle tap. But there was one circumstance which gave it a deadliness all its own. Achilles had his heel. Mr. Shute’s vulnerable point was at the other extremity. Instead of countering, he uttered a cry of agony, and clutched wildly with both hands at his hat.
He was too late. It fell to the ground and bounded away, with its proprietor in passionate chase. Arthur snorted and gently chafed his knuckles.
There was a calm about Mr. Shute’s demeanour as, having given his treasure a final polish and laid it carefully down, he began to advance on his adversary, which was more than ominous. His lips were a thin line of steel. The muscles stood out over his jaw-bones. Crouching in his professional manner, he moved forward softly, like a cat.
And it was at this precise moment, just as the two spectators, reinforced now by eleven other men of sporting tastes, were congratulating themselves on their acumen in having stopped to watch, that Police- Constable Robert Bryce, intruding fourteen stones of bone and muscle between the combatants, addressed to Mr. Shute these memorable words: “ ’Ullo, ’ullo! ’Ullo, ’ullo, ’ul-lo!”
Mr. Shute appealed to his sense of justice.