He observed a titter run round those who listened to him; turned to seek its cause; with Tyrang Maddox found himself face to face; and before he could make movement of escape was sent to the ground with a stunning box on the ear. He shouted a stream of filthy abuse and made to spring to his feet. Boss Maddox's hand pinned him down and Boss Maddox's whip came about his writhing form in a rain of blows that, when they were done and he had taken the kick that concluded them, left him cowering.
"Whose hand are you, you whelp?" Boss Maddox demanded.
Egbert Hunt looked up at him. He was gasping with sobs of pain and sobs of rage. He looked up, hate and murder in his eye, and pressed his lips between his sobs.
"Keep to his heel. Cross my sight again and the same is waiting for you."
Boss Maddox stalked away. A crowd had gathered from all parts of the camp, attracted by Egbert's screams. Egbert raised himself on one arm and looked at the grinning faces before him. He got stiffly to his feet, mumbling to himself, his breast still heaving with sobs. "Me, a full-grown man, to be used like a dog! Cross his path!--ill day for him when I do!"
He went a few paces, walking parallel to those assembled. Suddenly he turned to them, tears running down his face, and threw up his clenched hands. "I'll put a knife in 'im!" he cried. "By God, I'll put a knife in 'im!"
Percival suggested to Ima that they should use in a stroll the leisure evening that the trouble in the vans had given him. Some drink had been passing as the day wore on, and the heat between the two factions was not better for it. Here and there bickerings were assuming an ugly note.--"Let's get out of it," Percival said. "Come along, Ima, up to the top over there--Bracken Down they call it."
It was close upon nine o'clock as they left the Fair. They picked their way along the paths through the tall bracken that gave the place its name--reaching a clearing in the thick growth, by mutual accord they dropped down for a glad rest.
Very still and cool here among the fern, the Fair a nest of tossing lights, faint cries and that lion's trump of _oo-oo-oomph_ beneath them; a remote place of silence, and silence communicated itself to them until Ima broke it by her question "Of what are you thinking, Percival?" and to his reply--that he thought of when he should leave them all, and how--told him "Strange then how thoughts run. It was in my mind also."