His heavy stick was leaning against the seat. He seized it; swung it
high; crashed a blow that must have split the head it aimed.
George slipped aside; the blow missed. He poised himself as Bob,
following the impulse, went staggering by; put all his weight behind a
crashing hit and sent him spinning prone with a blow that was
fittingly final to the exhibition of lusty knocks.
Bob propped himself on one arm, rose to his feet; glared; hesitated--
then fell to brushing his knees.
It was a masterly white flag.
"Had enough?" George panted. "Had enough? Are you whipped, you swine?"
Bob assiduously brushed.
"When you're better, let me know," George cried; turned and hurried up
the path whither Mary had disappeared.
The forced draught of fury, pain, and exertion sent Bob's breath
roaring in and out in noisy blasts--now long and laboured, now
spasmodic quick.
He examined his bill of health and damage. Face everywhere tender to
the touch; clothes dust-covered and torn; both knees of trousers rent;
silk hat stove in when in a backward rush he had set his foot upon it.
His tongue discovered a broken tooth, his handkerchief a bleeding
nose, his fingers blood upon his chin, trickling to his shirt front.
So well as might be he brushed his person; straightened his hat;
clapped handkerchief to his mouth; past staring eyes, grinning faces,
hurried out of the Park to bury himself in a cab.
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