his sister in charge, down the lane, meeting them, came the village
tyrant. He strolled up with his hands in his pockets, and barred their
way. But while, his eye chiefly on Clare, he "straddled" like
Apollyon, but not "quite over the whole breadth of the way," Mary
slipped past him. The young brute darted after the child. Clare put
down his head, as he had seen the rams do, and as Simpson, who ill
deserved the name of the generous Jewish Hercules, was on the point of
laying hold of her, caught him in the flank, butted him into the
ditch, and fell on the top of him.

"Run, Maly!" he cried; "I'll be after you in a moment."

"Will you, you little devil!" cried the bully; and taking him by the
throat, so that he could not utter even a gurgle, got up and began to
beat him unmercifully. But the sounds of their conflict had reached
the ears of the bull Nimrod, who was feeding within the hedge. He
recognized Clare's voice, perhaps knew from it that he was in trouble;
but I am inclined to think pure bull-love of a row would alone have
sent him tearing to the quarter whence the tyrant's brutal bellowing
still came. There, looking over the hedge, he saw his friend in the
clutches of an enemy of his own, for Simpson never lost a chance of
teasing Nimrod when he could do so with safety. Over he came with a
short roar and a crash. Looking up, the bully saw a bigger bully than
himself, with his head down and horns level, retreating a step or two
in preparation for running at him. Simpson shoved the helpless Clare
toward the enemy and fled. Clare fell. Nimrod jumped over his
prostrate friend and tore after Simpson. Clare got up and would at
once have followed to protect his enemy, but that he must first see
his sister safe. He ran with her to a cottage hard by, handed her to
the woman at the door of it, and turning pursued Simpson and the bull.