"Hi!" said the tramp, "where be you a-comin' to?"
Mr. Fogo picked himself up and felt for his spectacles; they had
tumbled off in his flight, and without them his face presented a
curiously naked appearance. The alarum in his pocket had stopped
suddenly with the jerk of his descent.
"I beg your pardon," he mildly apologised, "but a bull in the next
field--"
"That's no cause for selectin' a gentl'm'n's stomach to tumble 'pon,
growled the tramp.
"I beg your pardon, I'm sure," repeated Mr. Fogo; "you may be sure
that had time for selection been allowed me--"
"Look 'ere," said the tramp with sudden ferocity, "will you fight?"
[Illustration: "Look 'ere," said the tramp . . . "will you fight?"]
Mr. Fogo retreated a step.
"Really--"
"Come, look sharp! You won't? Then I demands 'arf-a-crown."
With this the ruffian began to tuck up his ragged cuffs, and was
grimly advancing. Mr. Fogo leapt back another pace.
"_Cl'k--Whir-r-r-r-roo-oo-oo!_"
This time the alarum was his salvation. The tramp pulled up, gave a
hasty terrified stare, and with a cry of "The Devil!" made off across
the field as fast as his legs would carry him. Overcome with the
emotions of the last few minutes Mr. Fogo sat suddenly down, and the
alarum ceased.
When he recovered he found himself in an awkward predicament.
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