Again he got quite astonishingly near to Bealby, and then in an instant was on his feet and running across the encampment after him. He succeeded in kicking over the kettle, and the patent cooker, without any injury to himself or loss of pace, and succumbed only to the sharp turn behind the end of the caravan and the steps. He hadn’t somehow thought of the steps. So he went down rather heavily. But now the spirit of a fine man was roused. Regardless of the scream from inside that had followed his collapse, he was up and in pursuit almost instantly. Bealby only escaped the swiftness of his rush by jumping the shafts and going away across the front of the caravan to the turf pile again. The golfer tried to jump the shafts too, but he was not equal to that. He did in a manner jump. But it was almost as much diving as jumping. And there was something in it almost like the curvetting of a Great Horse.... When Bealby turned at the crash, the golfer was already on all fours again and trying very busily to crawl out between the shaft and the front wheel. He would have been more successful in doing this if he had not begun by putting his arm through the wheel. As it was, he was trying to do too much; he was trying to crawl out at two points at once and getting very rapidly annoyed at his inability to do so. The caravan was shifting slowly forward.... It was manifest to Bealby that getting this man to go was likely to be a much more lengthy business than he had supposed. He surveyed the situation for a moment, and then realizing the entanglement of his opponent, he seized a camp-stool by one leg, went round by the steps and attacked the prostrate enemy from the rear with effectual but inconclusive fury. He hammered.... “Steady on, young man,” said a voice, and he was seized from behind. He turned—to discover himself in the grip of a second golfer.... _Another!_ Bealby fought in a fury of fear.... He bit an arm—rather too tweedy to feel much—and got in a couple of shinners—alas! that they were only slippered shinners!—before he was overpowered.... A cuffed, crumpled, disarmed and panting Bealby found himself watching the careful extraction of the first golfer from the front wheel. Two friends assisted that gentleman with a reproachful gentleness, and his repeated statements that he was all right seemed to reassure them greatly. Altogether there were now four golfers in the field, counting the pioneer. “He was after this devil of a boy,” said the one who held Bealby. “Yes, but how did he get here?” asked the man who was gripping Bealby. “Feel better now?” said the third, helping the first comer to his uncertain feet. “Let me have your cleek o, man.... You won’t want your cleek....” Across the heather, lifting their heads a little, came Mrs. Bowles and Mrs. Geedge, returning from their walk. They were wondering whoever their visitors could be.