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 figures,--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 figure 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 dinner to take up to-morrow night
like I 'ave.--No need to numb my arm, IS there?"
They went into Buller's yard through gates. There were sheds in
Buller's yard--sheds of mystery that the moonlight could not
solve--a smell of cows, and a pump stood out clear and black,
throwing a clear black shadow on the whitewashed wall. And here
it was his face was to be battered to a pulp. He knew this was
the uttermost folly, to stand up here and be pounded, but the way
out of it was beyond his imagining. Yet afterwards--? Could he
ever face her again? He patted his Norfolk jacket and took his
ground with his back to the gate. How did one square? So? Suppose
one were to turn and run even now, run straight back to the inn
and lock himself into his bedroom? They couldn't make, him come
out--anyhow. He could prosecute them for assault if they did. How
did one set about prosecuting for assault? He saw Charles, with
his face ghastly white under the moon, squaring in front of him.
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