Adam Clotworthy had watched the growing drama with Laydon, Wingfield,
and Anne in the title rôles, with keen interest.
“Sail in, sail in, John, and take the ship by storm. I tell you a
maiden likes a man who overcomes obstacles, instead of pottering
around, mooning like a calf. You leave her too much alone, and it is
no telling what fancies she will get into her giddy pate.”
“I am not going to furnish food for her mirth with Wingfield,”
answered John angrily, recollecting the previous attempts to see her
which had been met by a drastic snubbing. “I shall guard her in every
way I can, but I have made the last advances I intend to.”
“John, you are what I call a simon-pure fool.”
“Fool or no fool, I am a man.” And with that unanswerable argument
Laydon walked away.
Turning over various plans in his head whereby he might help John,
Adam was startled as the shadow of Wingfield fell in front of him.
“Take your hulking carcass out of the path of a gentleman,” said
Wingfield to Adam.
“Gentleman?” inquired Adam. “Where is he? I do not see him.”
“Do you dare to insult your betters, you base-born cub?”
“Base-born!” yelled Adam. “My ancestors come from better stock than
yours, seeing they were honest men.”
“Honest men? Why, you cannot look an honest man in the face.”
“I will tell you how that happened,” replied Adam, restored to good
humor by the thrust he had given Wingfield. “Originally both eyes
looked in the same direction, but whenever I was talking to an honest
man I had to keep one eye upon the rogue. The strain was too much and
they parted company. The blue eye, being the keener, I keep fixed on
rogues, and if you observe closely, you will see that my brown eye is
looking up the stream. I leave you to guess the direction of the blue
one. I’ll tell you something else. If you do not keep your paw out of
a certain little matter we both know of, John Laydon will send you to
feed the fishes.”
Ripping out his sword, Wingfield made a thrust at Adam. Laydon, who
had just come up behind, caught the sword as it descended, and
wrenching it out of his hand, hurled it into the bushes. Without
further parley, he fell upon Wingfield and pounded him unmercifully.
The ex-President’s rage made him forget the social distance between
the carpenter and the gentleman, and he gave blow for blow in return.
Adam, watching every advantage, and with head lowered, charged upon
Wingfield from behind like a battering-ram.
The noise and scuffle brought President Smith hurriedly to the spot.
“Stop! I command you,” he thundered.
The enraged combatants sullenly parted, and Wingfield began a
tirade of abuse against low-born scullions who presumed to strike a
gentleman.
“It is no use for you to talk to me, Wingfield. I know you and
haven’t forgotten the message you sent Opechancanough. Better look
to yourself or else you will find that a dungeon in England is much
worse than a residence here.”