At this moment came the noise of wheels from behind, and the “tub,” which had obtained permission to go to the meet, drew up, with Patsy driving the children. “Let the children remain here,” said the General. “You stay with them, Violet. Come along, Boxall, till we see what these ruffians mean.” So filled was his mind with the objects in view that he quite forgot Dicky Fanshawe. “You _have_ put on the short skirt,” said Dicky, who at that moment would scarcely have turned his head twice or given a second thought had the battle of Austerlitz been in full blast beyond the park palings. “And my thick boots,” said Violet, pushing forward a delightful little boot to speak for itself. The children were so engaged watching the proceedings on the road that they had no eyes or ears for their elders. “Have you ever been beagling before?” asked Dicky. “Never; but I’ve been paper-chasing.” “You can get through a hedge?” “Rather!” “That’ll do,” said Dicky. “Mr Fanshawe,” cried Lord Gawdor from the “tub,” “look at the chaps in the road—aren’t they going for each other!” “I see,” said Mr Fanshawe, whose back was to the road—“Violet——” “Yes.” “No one’s looking——” “That doesn’t matter—_No_—not here—Dicky, if you don’t behave, I’ll get into the tub—Gracious! what’s that?” “He’s down!” cried Patsy, who had been standing up to see better. “Who?” asked Mr Fanshawe. “The Mimber of Parlyment—Misther Boxall—Bob Mahony’s grassed him——” “They’re _all_ fighting!” cried Violet. “Come, Mr Fanshawe—Patsy——” She started for the gates at a run. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXI MR BOXALL GETS IN THE WAY When the General had arrived on the scene, Shan had just got in and landed his antagonist a drum-sounding blow on the ribs with the butt of his whip. “Seize the other chap, Boxall!” cried General Grampound, making for Mahony. He was just half a second too late; the soot bag, swung like a club, missed Shan, and, catching Mr Boxall fair and square on the side of his face, sent him spinning like a tee-totum across the road, and head over heels in the ditch. That was all. A dead silence took the yelling crowd. “He’s kilt!” came a voice. “He isn’t; sure, his legs is wavin’.” “Who is he?” “He’s the Mimber of Parlyment.” “Off wid you, Bob Mahony—you’ve kilt the Mimber of Parlyment! Run for your life, and don’t lave off runnin’ till you’re out of the county.” “Hold your tongue!” cried General Grampound. “Boxall—hullo! Boxall! are you hurt?” “I’m all right,” replied Mr Boxall, who, from being legs upwards, was now on hands and knees in the ditch. “I’ve lost something—dash it!” “What have you lost?” “Watch.” “Come out, and I’ll get some of these chaps to look.” Mr Boxall came out of the ditch with his handkerchief held to the left side of his forehead. “Why, your watch and chain are on you!” cried the General.