‘Just a minute more,’ he resumed; ’I have another idea—­not a new one; an idea that came to me long ago, when your father first began to have trouble about you.  I happened to be in the shop one day—­it was when you were living idle at your father’s expense, young man—­and I heard you speak to him in what I call a confoundedly impertinent way.  Thinking it over afterwards, I said to myself:  If I had a son who spoke to me like that, I’d give him the soundest thrashing he’d be ever likely to get.  That was my idea, young man; and as I stood listening to you to-day, it came back into my mind again.  Your father can’t thrash you; he hasn’t the brawn for it.  But as it’s nothing less than a public duty, somebody must, and so—­’

Charles, who had been watching every movement of the speaker’s face, suddenly sprang forward, making for the door.  But Mr. Lott had foreseen this; with astonishing alertness and vigour he intercepted the fugitive seized him by the scruff of the neck, and, after a moment’s struggle, pinned him face downwards across the end of the table.  His stick he had thrown aside; the riding-whip he held between his teeth.  So brief was this conflict that there sounded only a scuffling of feet on the floor, and a growl of fury from Charles as he found himself handled like an infant; then, during some two minutes, one might have thought that a couple of very strenuous carpet-beaters were at work in the room.  For the space of a dozen switches Charles strove frantically with wild kicks, which wounded only the air, but all in silence; gripped only the more tightly, he at length uttered a yell of pain, followed by curses hot and swift.  Still the carpet-beaters seemed to be at work, and more vigorously than ever.  Charles began to roar.  As it happened, there were only servants in the house.  When the clamour had lasted long enough to be really alarming, knocks sounded at the door, which at length was thrown open, and the startled face of a domestic appeared.  At the same moment Mr. Lott, his right arm being weary, brought the castigatory exercise to an end.  Charles rolled to his feet, and began to strike out furiously with both fists.

‘Just as you like, young man,’ said the timber-merchant, as he coolly warded off the blows, ’if you wish to have it this way too.  But, I warn you, it isn’t a fair match.  Sally, shut the door and go about your business.’

‘Shall I fetch a p’liceman, sir?’ shrilled the servant.

Her master, sufficiently restored to his senses to perceive that he had not the least chance in a pugilistic encounter with Mr. Lott, drew back and seemed to hesitate.

‘Answer the girl,’ said Mr. Lott, as he picked up his whip and examined its condition.  ‘Shall we have a policeman in?’

‘Shut the door!’ Charles shouted fiercely.

The men gazed at each other.  Daffy was pale and quivering; his hair in disorder, his waistcoat torn open, collar and necktie twisted into rags, he made a pitiful figure.  The timber-merchant was slightly heated, but his countenance wore an expression of calm contentment.