"Tally-ho!" he yelled, brandishing the latter, and then without
hesitation he came charging across the open with the obvious intention
of cutting me off from the wood.

For the first time in three years I laughed. It was not a pretty
laugh, and if my new friend had heard it, his ardour in the chase
might perhaps have been a trifle cooled. As it was he came on with
undiminished zest, apparently quite confident in his ability to tackle
me single-handed.

We met about ten yards this side of the nearest trees.

He rushed in on me with another "whoop," and I saw then that he was a
big, powerful, red-faced fellow of a rather coarse sporting type--the
kind of brute I've always had a peculiar dislike for.

"Down you go!" he shouted, and suiting the action to the word, he
swung back his stick and lashed out savagely at my head.

I didn't go down. Instead of that I stepped swiftly in, and striking
up his arm with my left hand, I let him have my right bang on the
point of the chin. Worlds of concentrated bitterness were behind it,
and he went over backwards as if he had been struck by a coal-hammer.

It did me a lot of good, that punch. It seemed to restore my
self-respect in a way that nothing else could have done. You must have
been a convict yourself, shouted at and ordered about like a dog for
three weary years, to appreciate the full pleasure of being able once
more to punch a man in the jaw.