With these somewhat awkwardly carried, I returned to our still turbulent host. More like a volcano he was than a man who has had a narrow squeak from drowning, and before we had gone a dozen feet more he again turned and declared he would “go back and thrash the unspeakable cad within an inch of his life.” Their relative sizes rendering an attempt of this sort quite too unwise, I was conscious of renewed irritation toward him; indeed, the vulgar words, “Oh, stow that piffle!” swiftly formed in the back of my mind, but again I controlled myself, as the chap was now sneezing violently. “Best hurry on, sir,” I said with exemplary tact. “One might contract a severe head-cold from such a wetting,” and further endeavoured to sooth him while I started ahead to lead him away from the fellow. Then there happened that which fulfilled my direst premonitions. Looking back from a moment of calm, the psychology of the crisis is of a rudimentary simplicity. Enraged beyond measure at the woods person, Mr. Belknap-Jackson yet retained a fine native caution which counselled him to attempt no violence upon that offender; but his mental tension was such that it could be relieved only by his attacking some one; preferably some one forbidden to retaliate. I walked there temptingly but a pace ahead of him, after my well-meant word of advice. I make no defence of my own course. I am aware there can be none. I can only plead that I had already been vexed not a little by his unjust accusations of stupidity, and dismiss with as few words as possible an incident that will ever seem to me quite too indecently criminal. Briefly, then, with my well-intended “Best not lower yourself, sir,” Mr. Belknap-Jackson forgot himself and I forgot myself. It will be recalled that I was in front of him, but I turned rather quickly. (His belongings I had carried were widely disseminated.) Instantly there were wild outcries from the others, who had started toward the main, or living house. “He’s killed Charles!” I heard Mrs. Belknap-Jackson scream; then came the deep-chested rumble of the Mixer, “Jackson kicked him first!” They ran for us. They had reached us while our host was down, even while my fist was still clenched. Now again the unfortunate man cried “Help!” as his wife assisted him to his feet. “Send for an officer!” cried she. “The man’s an anarchist!” shouted her husband. “Nonsense!” boomed the Mixer. “Jackson got what he was looking for. Do it myself if he kicked me!” “Oh, Maw! Oh, Mater!” cried her daughter tearfully. “Gee! He done it in one punch!” I heard Cousin Egbert say with what I was aghast to suspect was admiration. Mrs. Effie, trembling, could but glare at me and gasp. Mercifully she was beyond speech for the moment. Mr. Belknap-Jackson was now painfully rubbing his right eye, which was not what he should have done, and I said as much. “Beg pardon, sir, but one does better with a bit of raw beef.”