Mr. Truefitt kissed her again, and was about to repeat the performance when she started up with a faint scream, and, pushing him away, darted from the summer-house and fled up the garden. Mr. Truefitt, red with wrath, stood his ground and stared ferociously at the shrunken figure of Captain Sellers standing behind the little gate in the fence that gave on to the foreshore. The captain, with a cheery smile, lifted the latch and entered the garden. “I picked a little bunch o’ flowers for Miss Willett,” he said, advancing and placing them on the table. “Who told you to come into my garden?” shouted the angry Mr. Truefitt. “Yes, all of ’em,” said Captain Sellers, taking up the bunch and looking at them. “Smell!” He thrust the bunch into the other’s face, and withdrawing it plunged his own face into it with rapturous sniffs. Mr. Truefitt, his nose decorated with pollen ravished from a huge lily, eyed him murderously. “Get out of my garden,” he said, with an imperious wave of his hand. “I can’t hear what you say,” said the captain, following the direction of the other’s hand and stepping outside. “Sometimes I think my deafness gets worse. It’s a great deprivation.” “Is it?” said Mr. Truefitt. He made a funnel of both hands and bent to the old man’s willing ear. “You’re an artful, interfering, prying, inquisitive old busybody,” he bellowed. “Can you hear that?” “Say it again,” said the captain, his old eyes snapping. Mr. Truefitt complied. “I didn’t quite catch the last word,” said the captain. “_Busybody_!” yelled Mr. Truefitt. “_Busybody_! _B—u—s——_” “I heard,” said Captain Sellers, with sudden and alarming dignity. “Take your coat off.” “Get out of my garden,” responded Mr. Truefitt, briefly. “Take your coat off,” repeated Captain Sellers, sternly. He removed his own after a little trouble, and rolling back his shirt sleeves stood regarding with some pride a pair of yellow, skinny old arms. Then he clenched his fists, and, with an agility astonishing in a man of his years, indulged in a series of galvanic little hops in front of the astounded Peter Truefitt. “Put your hands up!” he screamed. “Put ’em up, you tailor’s dummy! Put ’em up, you Dutchman!” “Go out of my garden,” repeated the marvelling Mr. Truefitt. “Go home and have some gruel and go to bed!” Captain Sellers paid no heed. Still performing marvellous things with his feet, he ducked his head over one shoulder, feinted with his left at Mr. Truefitt’s face, and struck with his right somewhere near the centre of his opponent’s waistcoat. Mr. Truefitt, still gazing at him open-mouthed, retreated backward, and, just as the captain’s parchment-like fist struck him a second time, tripped over a water-can that had been left in the path and fell heavily on his back in a flower-bed. “Time!” cried Captain Sellers, breathlessly, and pulled out a big silver watch to consult, as Miss Willett came hurrying down the garden, followed by Mrs. Chinnery.