"Did you say no?" he asked.

"I said--no!" replied Pratt. "I'm not going to take five thousand pounds
for a chance that's worth fifty thousand. Hang you!--if you hadn't been
a black sneak-thief, as you are, I'd have had the whole thing to myself!
And I don't know that I will give way to you. If it comes to it, my
word's as good as yours--and I don't believe Eldrick would believe you
before me. Pascoe wouldn't anyway. You've got a past!--in quod, I should
think--my past's all right. I've a jolly good mind to let you do your
worst--after all, I've got the will. And by george! now I come to think
of it, you can do your worst! Tell what you like tomorrow morning. I
shall tell 'em what you are--a scoundrel."

He turned away at that--and as he turned, Parrawhite, with a queer cry
of rage that might have come from some animal which saw its prey
escaping, struck out at him with the heavy stick. The blow missed
Pratt's head, but it grazed the tip of his ear, and fell slantingly on
his left shoulder. And then the anger that had been boiling in Pratt
ever since the touch on his arm in the dark lane, burst out in activity,
and he turned on his assailant, gripped him by the throat before
Parrawhite could move, and after choking and shaking him until his teeth
rattled and his breath came in jerking sobs, flung him violently against
the masses of stone by which they had been standing.

Pratt was of considerable physical strength. He played cricket and
football; he visited a gymnasium thrice a week. His hands had the grip
of a blacksmith; his muscles were those of a prize-fighter. He had put
more strength than he was aware of into his fierce grip on Parrawhite's
throat; he had exerted far more force than he knew he was exerting, when
he flung him away. He heard a queer cracking sound as the man struck