The struggle was a desperate and a bloody one, and it speedily became
apparent to the rider that he would have to dismount if he intended to
put an end to it.

Fiercely he flung himself off his horse and threw the reins over the
Vicarage gate-post. Then, riding-crop in hand, he approached the swaying
fighting animals. It was like a ghastly wrestling-match. Both were on
their feet, struggling to and fro, each with jaws hard gripped upon the
other's neck, each silent save for his spasmodic efforts to breathe.

"Stop it, damn you!" shouted the rider, slashing at them with the zeal of
unrestrained fury. "Caesar, you infernal brute, stop it, will you? I'll
kill you if you don't!"

But Caesar was deaf to all threats and quite unconscious of the fact that
his master and not his enemy was responsible for the flail-like strokes
of the whirling lash. They shifted from beneath it instinctively, but
they fought deliriously on.

And at that the man with the whip completely lost his self-control. He
set to work to thrash and thrash the fighting animals till one or other
of them--or himself--should become exhausted.

It developed into a horrible competition organized and conducted by the
man's blind fury, and in what fashion it would have ended it would be
hard to say. But, luckily for all three, there came at length an
interruption. Someone--a woman--came swiftly out of the Vicarage garden
carrying a bedroom jug. She advanced without a pause upon the seething,
infuriated group.