he kicked hard and hurt him.

"You little devil!" he snorted.

He pressed her to him, seeming to smother her, like an offensive
blanket.

His red beard brushed her forehead; his hot face crowded down on hers;
and above all his great red nose protruded above her like an inflamed
banana.

Mrs. Haggard was fond of saying that Joyce Woodburn was like a wild
animal. And in a way the vicar's wife was right. Self-preservation was
the first law of life for the girl as for every healthy young creature.
And long and intimate contact with horses and dogs had made her swift
and direct in action as were they.

Now when she felt herself in the clutches of the Beast, and the Greater
Death closing in upon her, she knew as little of doubts and scruples as
any creature of the wilderness.

That hateful breath was in her nostrils; those covetous eyes were close
to hers; that inflamed and evil nose protruded over her in flaming
invitation.

She seized it in her gloved hand and wrenched it. The effect was
immediate.

Joses squealed and clapped both hands to his damaged organ.

"My----, you----!" he squeaked in the voice of a Punch.

The girl broke away and ran. She was swift and hard as a greyhound. For
a moment the other stood, leaning over a bed of nettles, snorting and
sniffing as the blood dripped from his nose. Then he pursued. She heard
him thundering behind her. It was like the pursuit of a fawn by a
grizzly. She had only a hundred yards to go to the open; and as she fled
with her head on her shoulder, and her plait flapping, feeling the
strength in her limbs and the courage in her heart, she mocked her
pursuer silently.

That drink-sodden grampus catch her!

Her pride came toppling down about her. She tripped, wrenched her
ankle, and knew that she was done.

Before her was a familiar tree she had often climbed, with a branch some
six feet from the ground.

She swung herself up.

The Great Beast came snorting up. He was a dreadful sight. His nose was
bleeding profusely, and the blood had mingled with his beard and
moustache. He had lost his cap, and his head shimmered bald at her feet
beneath wisps of hair.

He seemed like a great vat full of spirit into which she had tossed a
lighted match.

"I got you, my beauty!" he panted in smothered and unnatural voice.

He put his hands on the branch.

She stamped on them with her heels: and she stamped hard. He swore, and
drew from a leather sheath a wooden-handled k