Yorke was an adept at boxing, and in the chance encounters into which a somewhat dissipated and reckless youth had led him, he had been an easy victor; but it now took all he knew to “keep himself.”  An instant’s carelessness, or the absence of a hand in search of that which he would now have gladly seized, and his guard, would have been broken through, and himself placed at his foe’s mercy.  Nothing but his long reach preserved him from those sledge-hammer blows, which seemed as though each must break the arm they fell upon.  As for using his whistle, the opportunity, of course, was not afforded him; and, moreover, he had no breath to spare for such a purpose.  Breath, however, was also a desideratum with the poacher, and the more so inasmuch as he accompanied every blow—­as Brian de Bois-Guilbert was wont to hammer home his mace-strokes with “Ha!  Beauseant, Beauseant!”—­with some amazing oath.  It is recorded of an American gentleman, much given to blasphemy, that he could entertain “an intelligent companion” for half a day with the mere force and ingenuity of his expletives; and this singular talent seemed to be shared by Richard Yorke’s antagonist.  That one of the most accomplished roughs of the Midlands had fallen to the young painter’s lot in that night’s melee, he could not for a moment doubt; but this reflection did not go far to soothe him.  He did not care for fighting for its own sake, while his pride revolted against thus being kept at bay by a brutal clown.  If he could but get the chance, he made up his mind to end this matter once for all, and at last the opportunity seemed to be afforded.  The poacher suddenly stepped back to the very margin of the pond, a long oval piece of water, and not very deep, and quick as thought, Yorke drew his deadly weapon.  But at the same moment there was a sound of racing feet, and down the drive there came two men at headlong speed.  Yorke did not doubt that they were poachers; but his blood was up, and he was armed—­he felt like an iron-clad against whom three wooden ships were about to pit themselves.  “Where I hit now I make a hole,” he muttered, savagely, and stood firm; nor did he even put his lips to the whistle that hung round his neck.

[Illustration:  “THE MAN TURNED AT ONCE, AND SPRANG AT HIM LIKE A TIGER.”]

But as the men came nearer, in the foremost he recognized Walter Grange, and at the same moment saw his late antagonist plunge wildly into the ice-cold pond, and begin to wade and swim across it.

“Cuss him!  I durst not do it,” gasped Walter, just too late, and mindful, even in his passionate disappointment, of rheumatic pains.  “Dash after him, Bob, while Mr. Yorke and I run round.”

But Bob had had the rheumatism too, or had seen the unpleasant effects of it in others, and shook his shaggy head.

A mocking laugh burst from the poacher, already nearing the opposite bank.

“Dang him!  If I’d got a gun, I’d shoot him.  Run, man!” cried Walter, excitedly—­“run, man, run!  He can never get along in his wet clothes.”  And off the two men started in hot pursuit.