“You’d better tell me,” I said, but George would say nothing further. He stood with his back now against the wall. I struck him on the cheek with my open hand. “Answer,” I said. I saw his eyes turn to the door, and anticipated the spring he made to get past me. The next moment I had him by the throat and we were struggling together. Suddenly I released my hold, flinging him from me. He struck out at me as I came toward him again, but it was the feeble, half-hearted blow of a coward, and I felt my fist in contact with his face, almost as if he had run up against it. He staggered back, and a crimson stream poured down over his chin and on to his shirt, making a horrible mess, while he stood blubbering like a baby. I did not hit him again, but simply watched him. I knew he was really more frightened than hurt, for though his nose was bleeding profusely, I had seen it do that on several occasions before, quite spontaneously. We must, all the same, have kicked up a considerable racket, for I heard the sound of quick footsteps in the passage, and then our door was flung open and a wild figure rushed in. It was Aunt Margaret, in a stained, red dressing-gown, her black eyes blazing in her big, puffy face. Her huge loose body shook and panted with rage as she turned from George to me. I stepped quickly out of her way, for there was something rather fearful in the great white mask of hate she turned on me. She said not a word, but shooting out an arm, like a shoulder of mutton, gripped me by the collar of my nightshirt, and began to rain down a torrent of heavy blows on my head and uplifted arms. I protected myself as well as I could, and at last, with a violent wrench, tore myself out of her grasp, my nightshirt ripping down to the hem, a considerable portion of it remaining in Aunt Margaret’s hand. “Stop that!” I shouted furiously, but she came at me again, her fat body panting yet displaying an incredible activity, her eyes shining with madness. I knew there would be mischief done, for I saw her catch up an iron rod that was part of George’s trouser-stretcher. I was really frightened now, and made a dive to get past her and out of the door. I felt her nails tear my naked shoulder; at the same moment I flung up my arm and, it may be, saved my life, for something crashed down over my elbow, striking on the back of my head with a sickening jar that I seemed to hear as the floor swept up to meet me. CHAPTER XXXVIII When I opened my eyes I was lying in bed, with a hot jar at my feet, and the pungent irritation of smelling-salts in my nostrils. Uncle George was in the room, and there was a stranger there also. I knew what had taken place, and, if I hadn’t remembered, there was an atrocious pain in my head to remind me. I put up my hand and discovered my head was bandaged. “Well,” said the stranger, drawing closer. “How do you feel now?” “My head’s pretty sore,” I answered.