When Harry Baker quickly seceded from the way, Mr Moffat at once saw the fate before him.  His hair doubtless stood on end, and his voice refused to give the loud screech with which he sought to invoke the club.  An ashy paleness suffused his cheeks, and his tottering steps were unable to bear him away in flight.  Once, and twice, the cutting whip came well down across his back.  Had he been wise enough to stand still and take his thrashing in that attitude, it would have been well for him.  But men so circumstanced have never such prudence.  After two blows he made a dash at the steps, thinking to get back into the club; but Harry, who had by no means reclined in idleness against the lamp-post, here stopped him:  ‘You had better go back into the street,’ said Harry; ‘indeed you had,’ giving him a shove from off the second step.

Then of course Frank could do no other than hit him anywhere.  When a gentleman is dancing about with much energy it is hardly possible to strike him fairly on his back.  The blows, therefore, came now on his legs and now on his head; and Frank unfortunately got more than his five or six shies before he was interrupted.

The interruption however came, all too soon for Frank’s idea of justice.  Though there be no policeman to take part in a London row, there are always others ready enough to do so; amateur policemen, who generally sympathize with the wrong side, and, in nine cases out of ten, expend their generous energy in protecting thieves and pickpockets.  When it was seen with what tremendous ardour that dread weapon fell about the ears of the poor undefended gentleman, interference was at last, in spite of Harry Baker’s best endeavours, and loudest protestations.

‘Do not interrupt them, sir,’ said he; ’pray do not.  It is a family affair, and they will neither of them like it.’

In the teeth, however, of these assurances, rude people did interfere, and after some nine or ten shies Frank found himself encompassed by the arms, and encumbered by the weight of a very stout gentleman, who hung affectionately about his neck and shoulders; whereas, Mr Moffat was already sitting in a state of syncope on the good-natured knees of a fishmonger’s apprentice.

Frank was thoroughly out of breath:  nothing came from his lips but half-muttered expletives and unintelligible denunciations of the iniquity of his foe.  But still he struggled to be at him again.  We all know how dangerous is the taste of blood; now cruelly it will become a custom even with the most tender-hearted.  Frank felt that he had hardly fleshed his virgin lash:  he thought, almost with despair, that he had not yet at all succeeded as became a man and a brother; his memory told him of but one or two of the slightest touches that had gone well home to the offender.  He made a desperate effort to throw off that incubus round his neck and rush again to the combat.

‘Harry—­Harry; don’t let him go—­don’t let him go,’ he barely articulated.