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.
So he decided to postpone it, and contented himself with warding and dodging his furious lunges and rushes, and gave him no blow in return.
Until, at last, after one or two heavy falls of his own occasioning, Tom gave it up, spluttered a final commination on his opponent, and turned to go home.
He went blunderingly down into the hollow way, and Gard stood watching him in doubt.
It seemed hardly possible he could cross the Coupee in that state, and he felt a sort of moral responsibility towards him.