for some reason, not exactly clear to himself, he turned about and waited.
"Who's that theer?" he asked.
"It's me," he was answered. "Stand up and take thy thrashing my lad."
The next instant he was struggling in the darkness with an assailant, and the air was hot with oaths, and they were writhing together and panting, and striking blinding blows. Sometimes it was one man and then the other who was uppermost, but at last it was Haworth, and he had his man in his grasp.
"This is because you hit the wrong mark, my lad," he said. "Because luck went agen you, and because it's gone agen me."
"When he had done Mr. Reddy lay beaten into seeming insensibility. He had sworn and gnashed his teeth and beaten back in vain.
"Who is it, by——?" he panted. "Who is it?"
"It's Haworth," he was answered. "Jem Haworth, my lad."
And he was left there lying in the dark while Haworth walked away, his heavy breathing a living presence in the air until he was gone.
