“Sir,” I said to him hotly, “I propose taking you home with me.  But before I do that, and since you seem to wish it, I am going to lay you on your back here in the road.  Frankly, there are some things about you I do not like, and if that will remedy your conceit, I’m going to do it for you—­for any sort of wager you like.”

“Money against your horse?” he inquired, stripping to his ruffled shirt as he spoke.  “A hundred guineas, five hundred?”

“Yes, for the horse,” I said.  “He’s worth ten thousand.  But if you’ve two or three hundred to pay for my soiling the shoulders of your shirt, I’m willing to let the odds stand so.”

He smiled at me simply—­I swear almost winningly, such was the quality of the man.

“I like you,” he said simply.  “If all the men of this country resembled you, all the world could not beat it.”

I was stripped by this time myself, and so, without pausing to consider the propriety on either side of our meeting in this sudden encounter in a public street, we went at it as though we had made a rendezvous there for that express purpose, with no more hesitation and no more fitness than two game cocks which might fall fighting in a church in case they met there.

Orme came to me with no hurry and no anxiety, light on his feet as a skilled fencer.  As he passed he struck for my shoulder, and his grip, although it did not hold, was like the cutting of a hawk’s talons.  He branded me red with his fingers wherever he touched me, although the stroke of his hand was half tentative rather than aggressive.  I went to him with head low, and he caught me at the back of the neck with a stroke like that of a smiting bar; but I flung him off, and so we stepped about, hands extended, waiting for a hold.  He grew eager, and allowed me to catch him by the wrist.  I drew him toward me, but he braced with his free arm bent against my throat, and the more I pulled, the more I choked.  Then by sheer strength I drew his arm over my shoulder as I had that of Harry Singleton.  He glided into this as though it had been his own purpose, and true as I speak I think he aided me in throwing him over my head, for he went light as a feather, and fell on his feet when I freed him.  I was puzzled not a little, for the like of this I had not seen in all my meetings with good men.

As we stepped about cautiously, seeking to engage again, his eye was fixed on mine curiously, half contemplatively, but utterly without concern or fear of any kind.  I never saw an eye like his.  It gave me not fear, but horror!  The more I encountered him, the more uncanny he appeared.  The lock of the arm at the back of the neck, those holds known as the Nelson and the half-Nelson, and the ancient “hip lock,” and the ineffectual schoolboy “grapevine”—­he would none of things so crude, and slipped out of them like a snake.  Continually I felt his hands, and where he touched there was pain—­on my forehead, at the edge of the eye sockets, at the sides of my neck, in the middle of my back—­whenever we locked and broke I felt pain, and I knew that such assault upon the nerve centers of a man’s body might well disable him, no matter how strong he was.  But, as for him, he did not breathe the faster.  It was system with him.  I say, I felt not fear only but a horror of him.