Part 36 (1/2)

”You don't know who you're up against,” he said. ”It's a kindness I'm doing to warn you. See? I'm just one of those blokes who don't stick at things, see? I don't stick at nuffin'.”

Mr. Polly's manner became detached and confidential--as though the matter and the speaker interested him greatly, but didn't concern him over-much. ”What do you think you'll do?” he asked.

”If you don't clear out?”

”Yes.”

”_Gaw!_” said Uncle Jim. ”You'd better. '_Ere!_”

He gripped Mr. Polly's wrist with a grip of steel, and in an instant Mr. Polly understood the relative quality of their muscles. He breathed, an uninspiring breath, into Mr. Polly's face.

”What _won't_ I do?” he said. ”Once I start in on you.”

He paused, and the night about them seemed to be listening. ”I'll make a mess of you,” he said in his hoa.r.s.e whisper. ”I'll do you--injuries.

I'll 'urt you. I'll kick you ugly, see? I'll 'urt you in 'orrible ways--'orrible, ugly ways....”

He scrutinised Mr. Polly's face.

”You'll cry,” he said, ”to see yourself. See? Cry you will.”

”You got no right,” began Mr. Polly.

”Right!” His note was fierce. ”Ain't the old woman me aunt?”

He spoke still closer. ”I'll make a gory mess of you. I'll cut bits orf you--”

He receded a little. ”I got no quarrel with _you_,” he said.

”It's too late to go to-night,” said Mr. Polly.

”I'll be round to-morrer--'bout eleven. See? And if I finds you--”

He produced a blood-curdling oath.

”H'm,” said Mr. Polly, trying to keep things light. ”We'll consider your suggestions.”

”You better,” said Uncle Jim, and suddenly, noiselessly, was going.

His whispering voice sank until Mr. Polly could hear only the dim fragments of sentences. ”Orrible things to you--'orrible things....

Kick yer ugly.... Cut yer--liver out... spread it all about, I will.... Outing doos. See? I don't care a dead rat one way or the uvver.”

And with a curious twisting gesture of the arm Uncle Jim receded until his face was a still, dim thing that watched, and the black shadows of the hedge seemed to have swallowed up his body altogether.

VII

Next morning about half-past ten Mr. Polly found himself seated under a clump of fir trees by the roadside and about three miles and a half from the Potwell Inn. He was by no means sure whether he was taking a walk to clear his mind or leaving that threat-marred Paradise for good and all. His reason pointed a lean, unhesitating finger along the latter course.

For after all, the thing was not _his_ quarrel.