that of half the village of Duke’s Hampton.
“Ah, would yer! it’s my turn now.”
The vengeance of his class against what he called a “swell.”
Chapter Three.
Science at Work
Horace North was more of the student than the athlete, and he felt the blood rushing to his head – a strange sensation of vertigo which he could have aptly described in writing, and thoroughly expressed, with all due detail, the action going on by the compression of certain veins and an artery. But for a few moments, in the mêlée, he could do nothing to free himself of the savage grip, which threatened to injure him for life, if it did not quite destroy.
But science is a fine backer of brute force. A man with little muscle is the equal of a giant when both are armed with sword or pistol; and could Horace North have brought his science to bear in the shape of galvanism or some anaesthetic, he would have had the burly giant at his mercy instead of rapidly losing his senses.
Galvanism was, however, not at hand, the opportunity to administer a dose of ether or chloroform was also wanting, and as one of the young doctor’s hands vainly grasped the ruffian’s sinewy wrist, the other fell nearly nerveless upon the table against which he was borne.
Here, fortunately, he found the much-needed help of science in the shape of a pestle of marble comfortably reposing in its native mortar.
Horace North had often used a pestle in peace; he now used it in war, for his fingers closed upon the wooden handle, the heavy weapon described the arc of a circle, there was a sounding rap, half an oath – barely that – and the big ruffian fell all in a heap upon the floor.
For a few moments Horace North felt dazed, but the fighting instinct of the man was now roused, and as a couple of the leader’s friends came at him to avenge their comrade’s fall, one uttered a yell as the pestle was dashed in his face, and the other a howl as it came down with a crack upon his collarbone, both being rendered hors de combat, while the doctor now bestrode the prostrate body of the old surgeon, and kept the rest at bay.
Just at this time there was a burst of cheering, for the students were warming to the fray and fighting shoulder to shoulder. The mob, disheartened by their leader’s fall, began to give way. The atmosphere of the lecture-hall was evidently too warm, and their retrograde movement rapidly became a rout, in which they were swept bodily out of the place by door and window, too much governed by the laws of self-preservation to think even of those who were down.
Then, as the last scoundrel was driven out, and a tremendous cheer arose from the victors, a strong body of police marched into the hall, well buttoned up and beautifully cool, to find that the work was done – all save that of marching off half-a-dozen dizzy, unwashed savages to the cooling cell.
“Better, sir?”
“Eh? Better? Yes – a little contused. Water! Thank you. Yes; better now. Rather rough proceedings.”
The old man looked round rather piteously, till his eyes lighted upon the young doctor.
“Ah! you, Mr North. I remember now. Thank you. Would you mind helping me to my carriage? I’m rather giddy.”
The task was done: the old man being helped to the hospital, and through it to a private entrance, where his carriage was in attendance, away from the crowd.
“That’s right. Come home with me, Mr North. I should like a few words with you, if you would not mind.”
Horace North gladly entered the carriage, for he thought the old man not fit to go alone, and in the excitement at the hospital no one paid him the slightest attention.
“Now come to my room,” said the old man, as they were set down at his residence in Harley Street. “Hurt? Oh, no! – a trifle. I want to talk to you about your plans. We’ll have a cup of coffee, a cigar, and a chat.”
That chat in the great surgeon’s study lasted till daybreak, and then Horace North walked back to his hotel with his brain on fire. For, with his ideas to a certain extent endorsed by the great authority he had just quitted, he saw himself on the eve of a grand discovery, one which should immortalise his name and benefit his fellow-creatures to a vast extent.
“It is like taking a plunge into the unknown,” he cried, as he walked hurriedly on, excited beyond measure. For Horace North was like the rest of the world – blind as to what would happen. Had he been otherwise, he would have buried his secret thoughts for ever sooner than have faced that which was to come.
Chapter Four.
Parson Salis Takes off his Coat
Mary Salis was wrong, for her headstrong, passionate sister was ready to do whatever she pleased, and what pleased her then was to obey the summons contained in the note Dally Watlock delivered to her that morning.
Her brother’s face grew stern and hard as he walked on, to see from time to time small footprints in the soft track, for a southerly wind and a cloudy sky proclaimed it a hunting morning. No dry wind had hardened the path, and Hartley Salis felt convinced that he knew his sister’s goal.
In half-an-hour he reached Red Cliff Wood, the great patch of ancient oaks on the Candlish estate through which the best trout-stream in the shire – the one which flowed through the Rectory meadows and down at the bottom of the Manor House garden – meandered.
His path was along by the stream, which here and there showed upon its bank the same traces of a pair of little feet, whose high-heeled boots left deep imprints; and Hartley Salis grew more stern as he walked on toward the depths of the wood, where the great mass of ruddy stone cropped out to give its name to the place, and form, as it overhung the stream, a glorious fernery, ever moist with the water that oozed from the strata from foot to top.
A dozen yards farther and there was a low whinnying noise, which came from a handsome sorrel hunter, secured by the bridle to a ragged old oak bough.
Not an unpleasant picture in that glorious old mossy wood, but sufficient to make Hartley Salis set his teeth, grip his stick tightly, and stride rapidly on to a green path a little farther away, where another picture met his gaze – to wit, his sister Leo with her back to him, and that back encircled by a broad scarlet band, which, on closer inspection, took the form of the arm of a well-built man in hunting-coat and top-boots.
Hartley Salis walked swiftly toward the group, the soft, mossy ground silencing his approach, till he trod upon a piece of rotten branch, which broke with a loud crack.
The couple started apart and turned to face the intruder, when Leo uttered a gasp of mingled shame and anger, and staggered back against a tree, leaving her brother face to face with Tom Candlish of the Hall.
For a few moments neither spoke, and then as the young man in scarlet got over his surprise, he half closed his dark eyes, and a mocking smile curved his lip.
“So it has come to this,” said the curate at last, speaking in a low voice full of suppressed anger.
“Hallo, parson! You here? Coming to the meet?” said the young man, half mockingly.
“After what has passed between us – ”
“Oh, come, that’ll do,” cried the young man insolently. “Do you suppose you have a right to begin preaching at me every time you see me?”
“Do
