The Dusky Hour by E.R. Punshon Page A

dispel, or even much to alleviate, the evident uneasiness with which his request was greeted – or the still greater uneasiness when the pistol could nowhere be found.
    Mr. Moffatt, who had made no effort to deny possession of such a weapon, believed it had been in a drawer in the library but he was not sure. After the burglar scare died down, he never thought of it again. A packet of ammunition was discovered, unopened. But that was all, though Mr. Moffatt agreed at once that his son sometimes used the pistol, sometimes merely for target practice, sometimes, as Norris had said, on rats and other vermin.
    â€œMost likely Noll will know where it is,” Mr. Moffatt said. “I’ll ask him as soon as he comes in.” And the scowl he gave the clock as he glanced at it suggested that the whereabouts of the missing automatic would not be the only subject discussed when the young man did make his appearance.
    It was growing late now, so, leaving Norris to await the return of Noll Moffatt, and the possible production of the missing weapon, Bobby started off on the constable’s cycle. He knew, from his careful reading of the map, that he had to go straight on, avoiding all turnings, till he came to Battling Copse, whose dark and heavy shadows it would be impossible to miss. A little further on he would come to the Towers Poultry Farm – “Teas” as well – and then, leaving that on the left, to where the road forked by a small pond. Keeping to the right, and taking the first turning on the right again, he would reach the entrance of the lane that led to Way Side. Half an hour’s brisk cycling in the clear moonlight, or perhaps a little more, sufficed to cover the whole distance, and then, as he drew near the copse, he became aware that not only the moonlight shining through the close-growing branches upon the dense and heavy undergrowth accounted for the light that seemed to lie in a pool at the foot of the trees. He slowed down. There came clearly to his ear a trampling of feet, a sound of blows, and for a moment he remembered the tale of how here victorious Briton and stubborn Roman fought out once again each year their ancient conflict.
    The moment passed. He jumped down and leaned the cycle against the nearest tree. He heard a voice say loudly:
    â€œLike to chuck me into the chalk-pit too, wouldn’t you?”

CHAPTER 6
FISTICUFFS
    Bobby ran forward quickly. In a kind of bay or inlet of open sward, surrounded on three sides by the dense growth of tree and bush that was Battling Copse, the clear moonshine, reinforced by the beam from the headlamp of a motor-cycle, showed two young men standing facing each other.
    One, his back to Bobby, was tall, heavy, somewhat clumsily built; the other was of a smaller, more slender build, and, as he soon showed, very quick and active in his movements.
    For, as Bobby came in sight of them, the taller of the two flung out at his opponent a heavy, somewhat ponderous right-hand punch. But the other adroitly side-stepped, and then retaliated with a quick left and right that brought from the onlooking Bobby a spontaneous and appreciative:
    â€œOh, pretty, very pretty.”
    Indeed, had those punches had a little more weight behind them they might have brought the fight to an immediate end. Both got well home, but the big man merely grunted, shook himself rather with the air of a duck shaking off raindrops, and then rushed forward. At once they were hard at it, for the smaller man stood his ground. Blow after blow the bigger of the two sent crashing in, and all of them his antagonist either took on the retreat with diminishing force or else avoided altogether. Once or twice indeed, as Bobby noticed with enthusiasm, he succeeded in avoiding devastating punches by simply moving his head an inch or two to one side, so that the other’s ponderous fist missed by inches only, but missed all the same. Almost as clever was the speed with which he flung