"Who is this,
talks of relationships? You cursed parson-pedagogue--!"
"Be quiet, Ned," warned Philip. "Everybody hears you."
"I don't care," replied Ned, rising, and again addressing Cornelius.
"Does anybody boast of relationships to you, you tow-headed bumpkin?
Do you think you can call me to account, as you can the scum you
preach to on the wharves? I'll teach you!"
Whereat, Cornelius being opposite him, Ned violently pushed forward
the table so as to carry the tutor over backward in his chair. His
head and back struck the floor heavily, and he lay supine beneath the
upset table.
An excited crowd instantly surrounded our group. Philip and I
immediately removed the table, and helped Cornelius to his feet. The
pedagogue's face was afire; his fists were clenched; his chest
swelled; and one could judge from his wrists what sturdy arms his
sleeves encased. As he advanced upon Ned, he was all at once become so
formidable a figure that no one thought to interpose. Ned himself,
appalled at the approaching embodiment of anger and strength,
retreated a foot or two from the expected blow. Everybody looked to
see him stretched flat in a moment; when Cornelius suddenly stopped,
relaxed his muscles, unclosed his fists, and said to his insulter, in
a quiet but virile voice quite different from that of his usual
speech:
"By the grace of God, I put my hands behind my back; for I've spoiled
handsomer faces than yours, Edward Faringfield!"
There was a moment's pause.
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