"If you weren't drunk I'd thrash you within
an inch of your life, you brute. Come back when you're sober, and I'll
give you a lesson in manners."
Tom had been struggling to get his arms up. At last he wrenched himself
free and came on like a bull. One of his flailing fists caught Gard
across the face, flattening his nose and filling one eye with stars; the
other hand, trying to grip his opponent, ripped open his coat, tearing
away both button and cloth.
"You lout!" cried Gard, his blood up and dripping also from his nose.
"If you must have it, you shall;" and he squared up to him to administer
righteous punishment.
And then the futility of it came upon him. The man was three-parts
drunk, in no condition for a fight, scarce able to attempt even to
defend himself.
No punishment of Tom drunk would have the slightest moral effect on Tom
sober. He would remember nothing about it in the morning, except that he
had been knocked about.
When he received his next lesson in deportment it was Gard's earnest
desire and hope that it might prove a lasting and final one.
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