"
"I shouldn't advise you to fasten a quarrel upon me." Montgomery was
speaking in the hard, staccato voice of a man who is holding himself in
with difficulty. "You'll save trouble if you'll go quietly. If you
don't you'll be hurt. Ah, you would? Take it, then!"
The blows were almost simultaneous--a savage swing which whistled past
Montgomery's ear, and a straight drive which took the workman on the
chin. Luck was with the assistant. That single whizzing uppercut, and
the way in which it was delivered, warned him that he had a formidable
man to deal with. But if he had underrated his antagonist, his
antagonist had also underrated him, and had laid himself open to a fatal
blow.
The miner's head had come with a crash against the corner of the surgery
shelves, and he had dropped heavily on to the ground. There he lay with
his bandy legs drawn up and his hands thrown abroad, the blood trickling
over the surgery tiles.
"Had enough?" asked the assistant, breathing fiercely through his nose.
But no answer came. The man was insensible. And then the danger of his
position came upon Montgomery, and he turned as white as his antagonist.
A Sunday, the immaculate Dr. Oldacre with his pious connection, a savage
brawl with a patient; he would irretrievably lose his situation if the
facts came out.
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