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Updated: April 30, 2025
Fight, you rat! Fight, or if you won't fight run!" And he ran at Wimpey, with blazing eyes. Wimpey staggered back a few paces like a man struggling with his own limbs. Then he felt the furious Scotchman coming at him like an express train, doubling his size every second, with eyes as big as windows and a sword as bright as the sun.
They will defend it on the contemptible ground of commerce or the more contemptible ground of social good. But do not fancy that you will find one other person who will comprehend a strong man taking the sword in his hand and wiping out his enemy. My name is Wimpey, Morrice Wimpey. I had a Fellowship at Magdalen.
Turnbull, with a questioning glance, handed him the weapon. MacIan took the second sword in his left hand and, with a violent gesture, hurled it at the feet of little Mr. Wimpey. "Fight!" he said in a loud, harsh voice. "Fight me now!" Wimpey took a step backward, and bewildered words bubbled on his lips. "Pick up that sword and fight me," repeated MacIan, with brows as black as thunder.
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