There was even the
beginning of a smile upon his lips. All the time his hand
caressed the neck of the horse. Francis noticed with amazement
that the poor brute had raised his head and seemed to be making
some faint effort at reciprocation.
"My good man," Sir Timothy said, "you seem to be one of those
brutal persons unfit to be trusted with an animal. However--"
The carter had heard quite enough. Sir Timothy's tone seemed
to madden him. He clenched his fist and rushed in.
"You take that for interferin', you big toff!" he shouted.
The result of the man's effort at pugilism was almost ridiculous.
His arms appeared to go round like windmills beating the air. It
really seemed as though he had rushed upon the point of Sir
Timothy's knuckles, which had suddenly shot out like the piston
of an engine. The carter lay on his back for a moment. Then he
staggered viciously to his feet.
"Don't," Sir Timothy begged, as he saw signs of another attack.
"I don't want to hurt you. I have been amateur champion of two
countries. Not quite fair, is it?"
"Wot d'yer want to come interferin' with a chap's business for?"
the man growled, dabbing his cheek with a filthy handkerchief but
keeping at a respectful distance.
"It happens to be my business also," Sir Timothy replied, "to
interfere whenever I see animals ill-treated.
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