I could have bolted for the hall door, but it would have been
too ignominious. Besides, a little glow of righteous anger was
springing up within me. I had been hopelessly in the wrong
before, but this man's menaces were putting me in the right.

"I'll trouble you to keep your hands off, sir. I'll not stand it."

"Dear me!" His black moustache lifted and a white fang twinkled
in a sneer. "You won't stand it, eh?"

"Don't be such a fool, Professor!" I cried. "What can you hope for?
I'm fifteen stone, as hard as nails, and play center three-quarter
every Saturday for the London Irish. I'm not the man----"

It was at that moment that he rushed me. It was lucky that I had
opened the door, or we should have gone through it. We did a
Catharine-wheel together down the passage. Somehow we gathered
up a chair upon our way, and bounded on with it towards the street.
My mouth was full of his beard, our arms were locked, our bodies
intertwined, and that infernal chair radiated its legs all round us.
The watchful Austin had thrown open the hall door. We went with
a back somersault down the front steps. I have seen the two Macs
attempt something of the kind at the halls, but it appears to take
some practise to do it without hurting oneself. The chair went
to matchwood at the bottom, and we rolled apart into the gutter.
He sprang to his feet, waving his fists and wheezing like an asthmatic.

"Had enough?" he panted.