“You infernal villain!” cried the Admiral, raising his stick. “You brute and blackguard!”
“Garn!” growled the rough, with the deep rasping intonation of a savage. “Garn out o’ this or I’ll—- He took a step forward with uplifted hand, but in an instant down came cut number three upon his wrist, and cut number five across his thigh, and cut number one full in the center of his rabbit-skin cap. It was not a heavy stick, but it was strong enough to leave a good red weal wherever it fell. The rough yelled with pain, and rushed in, hitting with both hands, and kicking with his iron-shod boots, but the Admiral had still a quick foot and a true eye, so that he bounded backwards and sideways, still raining a shower, of blows upon his savage antagonist. Suddenly, however, a pair of arms closed round his neck, and glancing backwards he caught a glimpse of the black coarse fringe of the woman whom he had befriended, “I’ve got him!” she shrieked. “I’ll ‘old ‘im. Now, Bill, knock the tripe out of him!” Her grip was as strong as a man’s, and her wrist pressed like an iron bar upon the Admiral’s throat. He made a desperate effort to disengage himself, but the most that he could do was to swing her round, so as to place her between his adversary and himself. As it proved, it was the very best thing that he could have done. The rough, half-blinded and maddened by the blows which he had received, struck out with all his ungainly strength, just as his partner’s head swung round in front of him. There was a noise like that of a stone hitting a wall, a deep groan, her grasp relaxed, and she dropped a dead weight upon the pavement, while the Admiral sprang back and raised his stick once more, ready either for attack or defense. Neither were needed, however, for at that moment there was a scattering of the crowd, and two police constables, burly and helmeted, pushed their way through the rabble. At the sight of them the rough took to his heels, and was instantly screened from view by a veil of his friends and neighbors.
“I have been assaulted,” panted the Admiral. “This woman was attacked and I had to defend her.”
“This is Bermondsey Sal,” said one police officer, bending over the bedraggled heap of tattered shawl and dirty skirt. “She’s got it hot this time.”
“He was a shortish man, thick, with a beard.”
“Ah, that’s Black Davie. He’s been up four times for beating her. He’s about done the job now. If I were you I would let that sort settle their own little affairs, sir.”
“Do you think that a man who holds the Queen’s commission will stand by and see a woman struck?” cried the Admiral indignantly.
“Well, just as you like, sir. But you’ve lost your watch, I see.”
“My watch!” He clapped his hand to his waistcoat. The chain was hanging down in front, and the watch gone.
He passed his hand over his forehead. “I would not have lost that watch for anything,” said he. “No money could replace it. It was given me by the ship’s company after our African cruise. It has an inscription.”
The policeman shrugged his shoulders. “It comes from meddling,” said he.
“What’ll you give me if I tell yer where it is?” said a sharp-faced boy among the crowd. “Will you gimme a quid?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, where’s the quid?”
The Admiral took a sovereign from his pocket. “Here it is.”
“Then ‘ere’s the ticker!” The boy pointed to the clenched hand of the senseless woman. A glimmer of gold shone out from between the fingers, and on opening them up, there was the Admiral’s chronometer. This interesting victim had throttled her protector with one hand, while she had robbed him with the other.
The Admiral left his address with the policeman, satisfied that the woman was only stunned, not dead, and then set off upon his way once more, the poorer perhaps in his faith in human nature, but in very good spirits none the less. He walked with dilated nostrils and clenched hands, all glowing and tingling with the excitement of the combat, and warmed with the thought that he could still, when there was need, take his own part in a street brawl in spite of his three-score and odd years.