He knew that the men were rich; he knew that they were drunk; and he knew, what was worst of all, that they were fundamentally frightened.  And he knew this also, that no common ruffian (such as attacks ladies in novels) is ever so savage and ruthless as a coarse kind of gentleman when he is really alarmed.  The reason is not recondite; it is simply because the police-court is not such a menacing novelty to the poor ruffian as it is to the rich.  When they came within hail and heard the voices, they confirmed all Turnbull’s anticipations.  The man in the middle of the road was shouting in a hoarse and groggy voice that the chauffeur had smashed their car on purpose; that they must get to the Cri that evening, and that he would jolly well have to take them there.  The chauffeur had mildly objected that he was driving a lady.  “Oh! we’ll take care of the lady,” said the red-faced young man, and went off into gurgling and almost senile laughter.

By the time the two champions came up, things had grown more serious.  The intoxication of the man talking to the chauffeur had taken one of its perverse and catlike jumps into mere screaming spite and rage.  He lifted his stick and struck at the chauffeur, who caught hold of it, and the drunkard fell backwards, dragging him out of his seat on the car.  Another of the rowdies rushed forward booing in idiot excitement, fell over the chauffeur, and, either by accident or design, kicked him as he lay.  The drunkard got to his feet again; but the chauffeur did not.

The man who had kicked kept a kind of half-witted conscience or cowardice, for he stood staring at the senseless body and murmuring words of inconsequent self-justification, making gestures with his hands as if he were arguing with somebody.  But the other three, with a mere whoop and howl of victory, were boarding the car on three sides at once.  It was exactly at this moment that Turnbull fell among them like one fallen from the sky.  He tore one of the climbers backward by the collar, and with a hearty push sent him staggering over into the ditch upon his nose.  One of the remaining two, who was too far gone to notice anything, continued to clamber ineffectually over the high back of the car, kicking and pouring forth a rivulet of soliloquy.  But the other dropped at the interruption, turned upon Turnbull and began a battering bout of fisticuffs.  At the same moment the man crawled out of the ditch in a masquerade of mud and rushed at his old enemy from behind.  The whole had not taken a second; and an instant after MacIan was in the midst of them.

Turnbull had tossed away his sheathed sword, greatly preferring his hands, except in the avowed etiquette of the duel; for he had learnt to use his hands in the old street-battles of Bradlaugh.  But to MacIan the sword even sheathed was a more natural weapon, and he laid about him on all sides with it as with a stick.  The man who had the walking-stick found his blows parried with promptitude; and a second after, to his great astonishment, found his own stick fly up in the air as by a conjuring trick, with a turn of the swordsman’s wrist.  Another of the revellers picked the stick out of the ditch and ran in upon MacIan, calling to his companion to assist him.