ural glances across the room to me, and smiled,
and smirked, and sidled, and shook her curls--it was wonderful to
behold, but she had no philosophy, and I looked cold"----

"And chilled her?"

"Exactly. I could have tumbled her into the railway, and been off to
Gretna, by only holding up my finger--but I wouldn't. She bore it pretty
well, considering the disappointment; and first consoled herself by
flirting at a ball with a set of ensigns and cornets, and then took to
you."

"To me? I don't understand you, Mr Jeeks."

"You do!"

"You are an insolent jackanapes"----

"I'm not--come, I am trying to keep my temper; but p'r'aps you think
Betsy a good speck? Bah! she'll not have five hundred pounds; and your
bumptious old governor won't buy back many of the old acres with a
dribble like that."

This time I did not give him a minute's grace: my hand was on his collar
in a moment; I shook him till his teeth rattled audibly, like dice in a
box; I kicked him, pushed him, and, as the gratification grew with what
it fed on, at one dread reckoning I paid off the horror I experienced
from his account of the girl I had worshipped, and his insolent mention
of my father. I took a fiendish delight in prolonging his agonies.
Another minute's indulgence in the punishment would have raised the
tiger that lies sleeping, but always awakable, in every man's heart, and
I might have killed him outright; but luckily we got near the boundary
hedge. It was of strong old thorns, very thick and high, and very wide
at top. I seized my victim with both hands, and swung him on to the
summit of the hedge, where, after wriggling a short time in every
variety of ridiculous contortions, and squeaking as he sank deeper and
deeper among the thorns, he threw himself by a great effort to the other
side, and rolled into the ditch.

Some people seem to take naturally to a thrashing, as others do the
small-pox. In a few minutes I perceived him emerge from the ditch and
walk--though rather stiffly--across the field. "Thank Heaven," I said,
"if I have been a dupe I am not a murderer!"

CHAPTER IV.

Next day I waited again--and the next, and the next; and no Lucy Ashton,
or rather no Betsy Juffles, came. The next day was Friday--my birthday.
I had much to do; my father was resolved to celebrate the great event by
a solemn dinner _tete-a-tete_, during which he was to communicate his
final decision with respect to my future pursuits. I hurried to the