Why did he not happen to meet Wakem? The want of that coincidence vexed him, and set his mind at work in an irritating way. Perhaps Wakem was gone out of town to-day on purpose to avoid seeing or hearing anything of an honourable action which might well cause him some unpleasant twinges. If Wakem were to meet him then, Mr Tulliver would look straight at him, and the rascal would perhaps be forsaken a little by his cool, domineering impudence. He would know by and by that an honest man was not going to serve _him_ any longer, and lend his honesty to fill a pocket already over-full of dishonest gains. Perhaps the luck was beginning to turn; perhaps the Devil didn’t always hold the best cards in this world. Simmering in this way, Mr Tulliver approached the yardgates of Dorlcote Mill, near enough to see a well-known figure coming out of them on a fine black horse. They met about fifty yards from the gates, between the great chestnuts and elms and the high bank. “Tulliver,” said Wakem, abruptly, in a haughtier tone than usual, “what a fool’s trick you did,—spreading those hard lumps on that Far Close! I told you how it would be; but you men never learn to farm with any method.” “Oh!” said Tulliver, suddenly boiling up; “get somebody else to farm for you, then, as’ll ask _you_ to teach him.” “You have been drinking, I suppose,” said Wakem, really believing that this was the meaning of Tulliver’s flushed face and sparkling eyes. “No, I’ve not been drinking,” said Tulliver; “I want no drinking to help me make up my mind as I’ll serve no longer under a scoundrel.” “Very well! you may leave my premises to-morrow, then; hold your insolent tongue and let me pass.” (Tulliver was backing his horse across the road to hem Wakem in.) “No, I _sha’n’t_ let you pass,” said Tulliver, getting fiercer. “I shall tell you what I think of you first. You’re too big a raskill to get hanged—you’re——” “Let me pass, you ignorant brute, or I’ll ride over you.” Mr Tulliver, spurring his horse and raising his whip, made a rush forward; and Wakem’s horse, rearing and staggering backward, threw his rider from the saddle and sent him sideways on the ground. Wakem had had the presence of mind to loose the bridle at once, and as the horse only staggered a few paces and then stood still, he might have risen and remounted without more inconvenience than a bruise and a shake. But before he could rise, Tulliver was off his horse too. The sight of the long-hated predominant man down, and in his power, threw him into a frenzy of triumphant vengeance, which seemed to give him preternatural agility and strength. He rushed on Wakem, who was in the act of trying to recover his feet, grasped him by the left arm so as to press Wakem’s whole weight on the right arm, which rested on the ground, and flogged him fiercely across the back with his riding-whip. Wakem shouted for help, but no help came, until a woman’s scream was heard, and the cry of “Father, father!”