What the cause of the quarrel was, or what sharp sarcasm from the woman's lips pricked suddenly through that thick skin may never be known, but suddenly the man took his pipe in his left hand, leaned forward, and deliberately struck her across the face with his right.

It was a slap rather than a blow, but the woman gave a sharp cry and cowered up against the barrow with her hand to her cheek.
"You infernal villain!" cried the Admiral, raising his stick.

"You brute and blackguard!" "Garn!" growled the rough, with the deep rasping intonation of a savage.
"Garn out o' this or I'll----" He took a step forward with uplifted hand, but in an instant down came cut number three upon his wrist, and cut number five across his thigh, and cut number one full in the center of his rabbit-skin cap.

It was not a heavy stick, but it was strong enough to leave a good red weal wherever it fell.

The rough yelled with pain, and rushed in, hitting with both hands, and kicking with his ironshod boots, but the Admiral had still a quick foot and a true eye, so that he bounded backwards and sideways, still raining a shower, of blows upon his savage antagonist.