James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. Here he was preparing to leap over the hedge into the fields on the left, when he was intercepted by two horsemen, who, hearing the shouts, rode up and struck at him with the butt-ends of their heavy riding-whips. “Let us walk across the Park at least,” he said to Ann Veronica. I want to go on with my University work under proper conditions, now that I’ve done the Intermediate. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured.
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