He had also removed all of the breakable assets to better protected places, his bump of precaution having been enlarged by the unfortunate breaking of his three hundred dollar “lookin’-glass” that was the pride of Circle and the envy of towns up and down the Yukon River for a hundred miles in either direction.
Conversation was being carried on but it was of a tense kind and low, and not at all like the big voiced, open hearted talk that is the way of these free men of the Northland. And all because a seasoned man, but a bully, was going to do battle with a stripling who hailed from a place they had heard spoken of as New York.
Bill had seen fights, yes, he had had fights ever since he could remember and in later years, as a member of the Harlem Athletic Club, he had watched some friendly bouts of give and take and had himself participated in so many battles that the fact he was going to fight Black Pete had no more effect on him than if he had been going to spar with Jack.
Black Pete was in a different mood. He too had had his fights but they were far between and rough and tumble ones at that with men who, like himself, knew nothing about the science of the game, and usually he came out on top. Failing in this he had used his knife on men who downed him, and once he shot a man. A bully sooner or later, though, will meet his match and when Black Pete met Bill he was scheduled for a K. O. (knockout).
At nine o’clock, or thereabouts, the proprietor walked over to the place where the bout was to be pulled off and made this announcement:
“We have with us to-night Black Pete, champeen all round pugilist of Alaska and Bill Adams, the New York Kid, in a friendly bout and may the best man win.”
Black Pete came on to the center of the floor full of dash and dog. Then Bill came on and held out his hand but Black Pete refused to shake, so Bill shook hands with himself, just like that. Evidently Pete was not going to fight according to approved ring rules. Instead he swung a vicious right hander at Bill’s head. Bill ducked it and laughed and he knew his man was slow.
Then by sparring and feinting he drew from Pete rights and lefts with the force of a sledge-hammer back of them but which Bill side-stepped or ducked. It was not long before Pete showed signs of getting tired of hitting the air. As Pete had told himself, if he could ever hit Bill he would smash in his face; the power was back of his blows all right but the trouble was that Bill wouldn’t stand still long enough to let him do it.
Bill, who was as lithe and nimble on his feet as a cat, was everywhere around his opponent at once and kept him on the go following his tactics. Then Bill must have gotten careless for Black Pete gave him a wallop on the jaw that sent him whirling a dozen feet. Now for the first time Pete’s friends egged him on and yelled “give it to him again.”
Then Pete, encouraged by his luck, rushed Bill, but he was not to be caught napping again. He warmed up to his work and tapped Pete on the nose, making it bleed, on the jaw, making it hurt, in the mouth, making it swell and in the eye making it black; in fact he hit him any and everywhere he wanted to and so fast did he hammer him that Pete got bewildered and began to strike out in every direction in the hope that some of his blows would land on his enemy’s anatomy, and so another did. It was a glancing blow and scraped Bill’s cheek so hard it nearly ripped the knife scar open.