What the cause of the quarrel was, or what sharp sarcasm from the
woman's lips pricked suddenly through that thick skin may never be
known, but suddenly the man took his pipe in his left hand, leaned
forward, and deliberately struck her across the face with his right. It
was a slap rather than a blow, but the woman gave a sharp cry and
cowered up against the barrow with her hand to her cheek.
"You infernal villain!" cried the Admiral, raising his stick. "You
brute and blackguard!"
"Garn!" growled the rough, with the deep rasping intonation of a savage.
"Garn out o' this or I'll----" He took a step forward with uplifted
hand, but in an instant down came cut number three upon his wrist, and
cut number five across his thigh, and cut number one full in the center
of his rabbit-skin cap. It was not a heavy stick, but it was strong
enough to leave a good red weal wherever it fell. The rough yelled with
pain, and rushed in, hitting with both hands, and kicking with his ironshod
boots, but the Admiral had still a quick foot and a true eye, so
that he bounded backwards and sideways, still raining a shower, of blows
upon his savage antagonist. Suddenly, however, a pair of arms closed
round his neck, and glancing backwards he caught a glimpse of the black
coarse fringe of the woman whom he had befriended, "I've got him!" she
shrieked.
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