A slight flush crept into Blair’s cheeks, and Jenkins gave Mallinson’s arm another twist that made the poor boy almost shriek with pain. This was more than the quick temper of Jack Blair could stand. The pent-up animosity of months broke out; and, never pausing to consider the probable consequences of his act, or to remember that the dandified being before him was his master’s nephew, he caught Mr Jenkins by the collar, shook him as a terrier would a rat, then hurled him across the office, where he fell with a crash in the fireplace. Picking himself up, with a snarl of rage Jenkins seized a heavy ebony ruler, which he aimed with all his might at Blair. It struck that youth a sharp blow on the head, making him see stars for a moment, then glanced off and smashed one of the small, dirty panes of glass in the window. Mr Jenkins’ triumph was, however, but short-lived. Roused to fury by the sting of the blow, Blair stepped up to the angry bully, his right and left shot out with lightning-like rapidity; and, receiving one on his mouth and one on his ample nose, Mr Jenkins measured his length upon the floor again, where he lay like a whipped cur, shouting ‘Murder!’ and ‘Police!’ In the midst of the hubbub, a door which led to the private office of Mr Phogg opened, and a tall, thin, black-bearded man appeared in the doorway. He gave a rapid look round the office, readjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles, took another look, then asked in cutting tones, ‘What is the meaning of this low, disgraceful conduct?’ Mr Jenkins picked himself up from the floor, holding his coloured silk handkerchief to his nose; little Mallinson shrank back into a corner; while Blair put his hands in his trouser-pockets with a resigned air, knowing there was trouble ahead for him, but determined to meet it boldly. ‘Now then,’ rapped out Mr Phogg, ‘must I ask again what is the meaning of this outrage perpetrated upon the premises of one of the oldest and most respectable businesses in Wycombe?’ ‘It’s that low fellow Blair,’ said Mr Jenkins; ‘he made a savage attack upon me. He’s a bully and a coward. He tried to murder me.’ ‘Now, John Blair,’ said Mr Phogg coldly, ‘what explanation have you got? Be careful what you say, for you may yet find yourself in the police-court, and any admission now, although spoken in hot blood, may be used against you.’ Jack Blair looked the contempt he could not express, for he cordially detested Mr Phogg. ‘I have no explanation,’ he said shortly; ‘ask your nephew for his version. I dare say it will be more to your taste than mine would be.’ Mr Phogg gave a sort of gasp--that is, he opened his mouth like a fish suddenly taken from the water, but he made no sound. Astonishment kept him silent. Had he heard aright? Had John Blair, the junior clerk, the youth who was dependent on his bounty, the ungrateful being whom he fed and lodged _and_ paid--had he dared to be impudent to him, Anthony Phogg, senior partner of the firm of Phogg and Cheetham?