Blakeford, for my handwriting was clear and firm, and I copied a great many documents in the course of the month.
He was as brutal to me as ever, and never lost an opportunity of abusing me for my being an incumbrance, or saying something which sent me miserable to my room.
My tender point, and he knew it well enough, was an allusion to my father’s debt to him; and afterwards, when I went up wretched and low-spirited to bed, I used to make a vow that some day or another I would save enough money to pay him all my father owed, and so free his memory from what the lawyer always told me was a disgrace.
Quite eighteen months had elapsed, when it became evident to me that Mr. Blakeford was in some trouble with one of his clients. This latter, a tall florid-looking farmer, had, as I learned from what I heard of their conversation, borrowed money from my employer upon some security, with the understanding that payment was not to be enforced so long as the heavy interest was provided for.
Mr. Blakeford’s business seemed to consist a great deal in money-lending, and every now and then my old acquaintance, Mr. Rowle, came to the office for instructions, and found time for a friendly chat.
Upon this occasion I noticed that Mr. Blakeford was very anxious about the coming of some one to the office, and he spent a good deal of time in watching from one of the windows.
He was sternly examining a piece of copying that I had just finished, when there came three heavy knocks with a stick upon the outer door of the office.
Mr. Blakeford turned yellow, and, catching me by the arm, whispered—
“It’s Mr. Wooster. Antony, say I’m not at home. Say I’ve gone out. Quick.”
He pushed me towards the door, and I went to open it just as there were three more heavy knocks, and on drawing back the fastening, there stood Mr. Wooster, the stout, tall, farmer-looking man, scowling and angry.
“Where’s Mr. Blakeford?” he cried, catching me fiercely by the collar, and shaking a stout ash stick he carried.
“Please, sir—” I began.
“It’s a lie!” he roared; “he’s not out. Didn’t he tell you to say he was out?”
“Yes, sir,” I faltered, and he strode straight in; and as I followed, I saw him catch Mr. Blakeford by the throat and pin him in his chair.
“Fetch the constable, Antony,” cried Mr. Blakeford. “Quick!”
“Stop where you are, you young dog,” roared the farmer, “or I’ll kill you. Now, you scoundrel, what do you mean by seizing my goods, by putting your rascally man in possession after promising me in this office that you would never put me to any inconvenience?”
“If you have any complaint to make against me, Mr. Wooster, employ your solicitor,” cried Mr. Blakeford hoarsely.
“Hang your solicitor and the whole crew, you scoundrelly serpent!” roared the farmer. “You’ve ruined me, as you ruined that poor boy’s father, and a score more before him.”
“Antony—a constable—help!” cried Mr. Blakeford, for he was yellow and green with fear.
“If Antony Grace stirs, I’ll crush him like I would a snail,” cried the farmer. “And now look here, you crawling snake; I trusted you because I didn’t believe any one could deliberately ruin another for the sake of a few pounds.”
“Mr. Wooster, if you dare to strike me,” cried the miserable coward, “I shall proceed against you for assault.”
“So you may,” cried the farmer, with a bitter laugh; “and as you’ve got every penny I had, much good may it do you. Look here, Blakeford; if I knew that I should be transported for life to Botany Bay for what I’m going to do, I’d do it now.”
As he spoke, he spat in his hand, took a fresh grip of the ash stick, and, in spite or Mr. Blakeford’s cries for help and mercy, he thrashed him till the stick broke in pieces; and then, taking him by the collar with both hands, he shook him till he was tired, and ended by throwing him back in his chair.
“There!” cried the farmer; “now do your worst, you cheating scoundrel. I’m satisfied; go and satisfy yourself, and much good may the money you have stolen from the poor, the fatherless, and the widow do you.”
As he said this he strode out of the office and banged the door.
I was half stunned with fear and horror, and I remember how thankful I felt that I had seen Mrs. Blakeford go out with Hetty half an hour before. While the thrashing was going on Mary had opened the door and looked in, but as if it were no business of hers, she had gone out again, and I was left the sole spectator.
“Are you much hurt, sir?” I said in trembling tones as soon as we were alone.
“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely, and showing his teeth, “a good deal.”
“Shall I get you something, sir?”
“Yes,” he said, panting less hoarsely, “fetch that leather case out of the passage.”
I ran and fetched the heavy leather-covered box he meant, and placed it beside him, watching him anxiously, to see if he were better.
“Now, fasten both the doors,” he whispered, laying his hand upon his breast to keep down the panting as he drew his breath more easily, and wiped the perspiration from his face.
I obeyed him, and then returned to his side.
“Now unfasten that case, Antony,” he said in quite a faint whisper; and going down on one knee I unbuckled a thick strap that was round it, and was about to raise the lid, but it was locked.
“That will do,” he said, suddenly changing his tone as he seized me by the jacket collar with one hand, the strap with the other. “You young villain!” he hissed; “you dog! Didn’t I tell you to say I was out, and you let that bully in? I’ll give you such a lesson as you will never forget.”
I was half stupefied as he raised the thick strap, and then brought it heavily down in blow after blow, cutting me all over the body, across the face, hands, legs, anywhere, and causing the most intense pain. I writhed and twined and screamed out under the first few blows in my agony; then a feeling of blind passion came over me, and I caught at and struggled with him for the possession of the strap, but in vain; for he kept me at bay with one hand and continued to beat me cruelly till I fell and then, placing one foot upon my chest, he beat me again till his arm fell in weariness to his side.
“I’ll teach you to mind me another time,” he panted, as he gloated over me in his pitiful revenge for the beating he had himself received. “I’ll give you something to remember this day by;” and, as I rose, he once more began to strike me; but this time I caught at the strap and held it with hands and teeth, twisting it round me and holding on while he strove to drag it away.
My resistance seemed to half madden him as I still held on.
“Let go, you dog!” he roared, “let go!” but I held on the more tightly; when, beside himself with rage, as a loud knocking
