He caught a blow on the arm and gave ground. Charles pressed him. Then he hit with his right and with the violence of despair. It was a hit of his own devising,—an impromptu,—but it chanced to coincide with the regulation hook hit at the head. He perceived with a leap of exultation that the thing his fist had met was the jawbone of Charles. It was the sole gleam of pleasure he experienced during the fight, and it was quite momentary. He had hardly got home upon Charles before he was struck in the chest and whirled backward. He had the greatest difficulty in keeping his feet. He felt that his heart was smashed flat. “Gord darm!” said somebody, dancing toe in hand somewhere behind him. As Mr. Hoopdriver staggered, Charles gave a loud and fear-compelling cry. He seemed to tower over Hoopdriver in the moonlight. Both his fists were whirling. It was annihilation coming—no less. Mr. Hoopdriver ducked perhaps and certainly gave ground to the right, hit, and missed. Charles swept round to the left, missing generously. A blow glanced over Mr. Hoopdriver’s left ear, and the flanking movement was completed. Another blow behind the ear. Heaven and earth spun furiously round Mr. Hoopdriver, and then he became aware of a figure in a light suit shooting violently through an open gate into the night. The man in gaiters sprang forward past Mr. Hoopdriver, but too late to intercept the fugitive. There were shouts, laughter, and Mr. Hoopdriver, still solemnly squaring, realized the great and wonderful truth—Charles had fled. He, Hoopdriver, had fought and, by all the rules of war, had won. “That was a pretty cut under the jaw you gave him,” the toothless little man with the beard was remarking in an unexpectedly friendly manner. “The fact of it is,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, sitting beside the road to Salisbury, and with the sound of distant church bells in his ears, “I had to give the fellow a lesson; simply had to.” “It seems so dreadful that you should have to knock people about,” said Jessie. “These louts get unbearable,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “If now and then we didn’t give them a lesson,—well, a lady cyclist in the roads would be an impossibility.” “I suppose every woman shrinks from violence,” said Jessie. “I suppose men _are_ braver—in a way—than women. It seems to me—I can’t imagine—how one could bring oneself to face a roomful of rough characters, pick out the bravest, and give him an exemplary thrashing. I quail at the idea. I thought only Ouida’s guardsmen did things like that.” “It was nothing more than my juty—as a gentleman,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “But to walk straight into the face of danger!” “It’s habit,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, quite modestly, flicking off a particle of cigarette ash that had settled on his knee. XXXIII. THE ABASEMENT OF MR. HOOPDRIVER