Eli's Children Part 68

"Oh, do you?" said the fellow with a chuckle. "And so do I know you.

You're a game preserver from Lincolns.h.i.+re."

"Never mind who or what I am," cried Artingale, who felt in his excitement as if he had never spoken worse in his life; "but just you listen to me, you scoundrel. I know how you have followed and insulted those two young ladies."

"What two young ladies? I don't know anything about two young ladies."

"I know that you have watched for their coming, and, knowing that they were unprotected, you have tried to alarm them into giving you money, I suppose, and so far you have escaped the police."

"Ho!" said the fellow, making Artingale's foot rise and fall, as he indulged in a rumbling chuckle; "it's a police case, then, after all?

Lawford magistrates?"

"No, not now," cried Artingale, angrily. "Keep back, Magnus, I'll manage him," he cried; "you're not fit. I say, it is not a police case now."

"Oh!" growled the fellow, laughing defiantly, "what may it be, then?"

"A thras.h.i.+ng, you dog, for if ever there was a time when a gentleman might dirty his hands by touching a blackguard it is now."

"Ho! it's a leathering is it, your lords.h.i.+p!"

"Yes," cried Artingale, "it's a thras.h.i.+ng now, you great hulking brute; and after that, if ever you dare approach those ladies again--if ever you speak to them, or look at them, or annoy them, directly or indirectly, either here or down at home, I'll half kill you, and hand you over afterwards to the police."

"Ho, you will, will you?" said the fellow, mockingly.

"And I--I--" cried Magnus, bending down and approaching his pale, pa.s.sion-distorted face to that of the great robust scoundrel at his feet.

"Yes, I see there's two," growled the fellow. "And what'll you do?"

"_I'll shoot you like a dog_!" There was something horrible in the intensity of hatred and pa.s.sion contained in the low, hissing voice in which these few words were uttered; and as he lay there and heard them the great ruffian's brown face became of a dirty grey. But the look of dread was gone on the instant, and his chest heaved as he indulged in a mocking burst of laughter.

"All right," he said; "fire away, and if you do kill me, I'll come when I'm a ghost and see you hung. There, be off both of you. This is free land. This isn't Lawford, and I haven't been taking any of your lords.h.i.+p's rabbuds this time."

"What are you doing here?" said Artingale.

"Doing here!" said Jock, musingly; "why don't you know I'm a Lawford man?"

"Yes; I know that," cried Artingale.

"Well, my parson's down here; I miss him when he comes away."

"Get up, you scoundrel!" cried Artingale, throwing off the brown velvet coat he was wearing, and taking off his watch and chain.

"Not I," growled the fellow. "There's lots o' room for you to pa.s.s, man, and 'taint your path. That's the gainest road back."

"Get up?" roared Artingale, rolling up his sleeves over his white arms.

"Do you hear?"

"Oh, ah! I can hear," growled the fellow.

"Get up, then."

"Not I. It's comfortable here."

"You cowardly ruffian, get up!" roared Artingale.

"Nay, it's not me as is the coward," said Jock, coolly. "You're two to one. Besides, I don't want to hurt your lords.h.i.+p."

"Get up!" roared Artingale again, but Jock did not move, only lay there gazing mockingly in his face, making the young man's blood seem to seethe with rage.

"Get up!" he roared once more.

"Weant!"

As the word left the ruffian's lips, Artingale's pa.s.sion knew no bounds, and before his companion realised what he was about to do, he had given Jock Morrison a tremendous kick in the ribs.

The effect was instantaneous.

With a roar like that of an angry bull, the fellow scrambled to his feet, and as Magnus sprang forward to seize him, he struck the artist full in the chest, sending him staggering back to fall heavily, _hors de combat_, for he was as weak almost as a child.

It was the work of moments, for even as he struck Magnus he turned upon Artingale, receiving two heavy, well-directed blows, dealt in good scientific style right in the jaw and cheek, but making no more of them than if they had been slaps from the open hand of a boy, as he caught the young man in a tremendous grip like that of a wrestler, and swayed and struggled with his adversary to and fro, roused now to a pitch of rage that was murderous.

Artingale knew it. He read it in the fierce eyes so close to his, as he felt himself crushed against the great fellow's chest. He read it in the grinding teeth, and felt it in the hot breath that came full in his face, and he put forth all his strength and all the cultured activity gained in lessons of the best athletic school. But it was all in vain, for he felt as helpless as a boy in the giant's grip.

It was but the work of moments; a few struggles here and there, and the knowledge forced upon him of the scoundrel's murderous aim before Artingale felt himself swung from his feet as they neared the cliff, and then, in spite of his manhood, he felt his blood turn cold.

He roused himself though for a supreme effort, and clutching his adversary with all his might, he strove to recover his foot-hold.

But no--he was mastered. He could do nothing but hold on with all his might, as he mentally swore that Jock Morrison should share his fate.

Vain oath, vain effort! There was a swing, a jerk, and what seemed to be a paralysing blow upon his muscles, as he was forced away from his hold, and the next instant he was falling headlong from the cliff-edge into the void beneath.

End of Volume Two.

PART TWO, CHAPTER FIVE.

WHAT PLAN NEXT?

James Magnus had just struggled to his knees, feeling half mad with rage at his impotence, for it was only now that he fully realised how terribly he had been reduced by his illness. Here before him was the man whom he had to thank for his sufferings, and against whom for other reasons as well he nourished a bitter hatred; and yet, instead of being able to seize him by the throat and force the scoundrel to his knees, he was as helpless as a child.

"Dog! villain!" he panted, as he staggered up, and made at the fellow; but Jock Morrison gave him a contemptuous look for answer, and turned to him, but seemed to alter his mind, and as if alarmed at what he had done, started off at a brisk trot; while after vainly looking round for help, Magnus tottered towards the edge of the cliff, his eyes starting and the great drops of perspiration gathering upon his face.

For a few moments he dared not approach the extreme verge, for everything seemed to be swimming before his eyes, but at last, horror-stricken, and trembling in every limb, he went down on hands and knees, crept to the spot where Artingale had gone over, and peered down, expecting to see the mangled remains of his poor friend lying upon the stones beneath.

"Ahoy!" came from below, in the well-known voice of Artingale; and then, as Magnus saw his friend some twenty feet below, trying to clamber back, he uttered a low sigh, and sank back fainting upon the turf.

For in spite of Jock Morrison's murderous intent, fate had been kind to Harry Artingale, who had been hurled over the edge in one of the few places where instead of going down perpendicularly, the friable cliff was broken up into ledges and slopes, upon one of which the young man had fallen and clung for his life to the rugged pieces of stone, slipping in a little avalanche of fragments some twenty or thirty feet farther than his first fall of about ten. Here he managed to check himself, while one of the largest fragments of stone that he had started in his course went on, and as he clung there he saw it leap, as it were, from beside him, and a few seconds after there came up a dull crash from where the stone had struck and splintered, two hundred feet below.