“Miss Sparkes!”

“Oh, it’s you this time, is it?  Come just to say good night?  You needn’t have put yourself out.”

“Miss Sparkes, are you in your proper dress?”

“What d’you mean?” Polly answered resentfully.  “You’ve been drinking again, I suppose.”

“Not at all, my dear.  I asked you for a good and sufficient reason.  I’m going to break your door open, that’s all, and I wish to give you fair warning.  Are you dressed or not?”

“Impudent wretch!  What are you doing here?  What business is it of yours?”

“I’m the only strong man handy, that’s all.  Paid for the job, being out of work just now.”

Mrs. Bubb tittered; Mrs. Cheeseman, down below, choked audibly.

“Will you answer that question or not?  Very good; I give you till I’ve counted fifty, slow.  When I say fifty, bang goes the bloomin’ door.”

Amid an awful silence, enveloped, as it were, by the dull rumbling of vehicles without, Mr. Gammon’s voice began counting.  He expected to hear Polly’s key turn in the lock, so did Mrs. Bubb and Mrs. Clover.  But the key moved not.

“Forty-eight—­forty-nine—­fifty!”

Gammon drew back to give himself impetus, and rushed against the door.  With raised foot he struck it just by the handle, and the house seemed to quiver.  A second assault was successful; with crash and splintering the lock yielded, the door flew open.  At the far side of the room stood Polly, but in no attitude of surrender; she held a clothes brush, and as soon as the assailant showed himself flung it violently at his head.  Another missile would have followed, but Gammon was too quick; with a red Indian yell of victory he crossed the floor at one bound and had Polly in his arms.

“Look out, ladies!” he shouted.  “See fair play!”

Mrs. Bubb vented her emotions in “Oh my!” and “Did you ever!” with little screams of excitement verging on sheer laughter.  It avenged her delightfully to see Miss Sparkes gripped by the waist and hoisted for removal.  But Mrs. Clover was evidently possessed by very different feelings.  Drawing back, as if in alarm or shame, a glow on each cheek, she uttered an involuntary cry of protest.

“No, Mr. Gammon, I can’t have that!”

It was doubtful whether the champion heard, for he unmistakably had his work set.  Tooth and nail Polly contested every inch of ground.  One moment her little fists were pummelling Gammon in the face, the next she tugged at his hair.  Then again she scratched and kicked simultaneously, her voice meanwhile screaming insult and menace, which must have been audible in the neighbours’ houses.

“Stop!” entreated Mrs. Clover.  “Put her down at once!” she commanded.  “Do you hear me, Mr. Gammon?”

Whether he did or not, the bold bagman paid no heed.  He had at length a firmer grip of Polly with one of her arms imprisoned.  He neared the head of the stairs, the women falling back before him.