MR. HOOPDRIVER, KNIGHT-ERRANT
taking the control of the entire affair with the easy readiness of an accomplished practitioner. "If the gentleman don't mind." Buller's yard, it seemed, was the very place. "We'll do the thing regular and decent, if you please." And before he completely realised what was happening, Hoopdriver was being marched out through the back premises of the inn, to the first and only fight with fists that was ever to glorify his life.
Outwardly, so far as the intermittent moonlight showed, Mr. Hoopdriver was quietly but eagerly prepared to fight. But inwardly he was a chaos of conflicting purposes. It was extraordinary how things happened. One remark had trod so closely on the heels of another, that he had had the greatest difficulty in following the development of the business. He distinctly remembered himself walking across from one room to the other,—a dignified, even an aristocratic figure, primed with considered eloquence, intent upon a scathing remonstrance to these wretched yokels, regarding their manners. Then incident had flickered into incident until here he was out in a moonlit lane,—a slight dark figure in a group of larger, indistinct bulks,—marching in a quiet business-like way towards some unknown horror at Buller's yard. Fists! It was astonishing. It was terrible! In front of him was the pallid face of Charles, and he saw that the man in gaiters held Charles kindly but firmly by the arm.
"It's blasted rot," Charles was saying, "getting up a fight just for a thing like that; all very well for 'im. 'E's got 'is 'olidays; 'e 'asn't no blessed
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