forward. "I won't run away, sir," said Cashel, more humbly, shedding
fresh tears. "Please let me go," he added, in a suffocated voice,
trying to turn his face toward his captor. But Wilson twisted him
back again, and urged him still onward. Cashel cried out
passionately, "Let me go," and struggled to break loose.

"Come, come, Byron," said the master, controlling him with a broad,
strong hand; "none of your nonsense, sir."

Then Cashel suddenly slipped out of his jacket, turned on Wilson,
and struck up at him savagely with his right fist. The master
received the blow just beside the point of his chin; and his eyes
seemed to Cashel roll up and fall back into his head with the shock.
He drooped forward for a moment, and fell in a heap face downward.
Cashel recoiled, wringing his hand to relieve the tingling of his
knuckles, and terrified by the thought that he had committed murder.
But Wilson presently moved and dispelled that misgiving. Some of
Cashel's fury returned as he shook his fist at his prostrate
adversary, and, exclaiming, "YOU won't brag much of having seen me
cry," wrenched the jacket from him with unnecessary violence, and
darted away at full speed.

Mr. Wilson, though he was soon conscious and able to rise, did not
feel disposed to stir for a long time. He began to moan with a dazed
faith that some one would eventually come to him with sympathy and
assistance. Five minutes elapsed, and brought nothing but increased
cold and pain. It occurred to him that if the police found him they
would suppose him to be drunk; also that it was his duty to go to
them and give them the alarm. He rose, and, after a struggle with
dizziness and nausea, concluded that his most pressing duty was to