Dad, instinctively seeking to protect his own face, had resorted, without intent, to a favorite street-fight maneuver; by opposing his head-crown to a blow instead of his jaw. Hundreds of hands have been broken or otherwise put out of commission by that simple ruse.
The Confederate’s left hand being helpless, Dad shifted his own right from the man’s throat to the sword wrist. A heaving wrench of both hands and the saber flew from the captain’s back-twisted arm.
Jimmy (who, during the second or two that had elapsed since Dad and the Confederate had so unexpectedly shifted their rôles of captor and captive, had stared fascinated at the fray) now jumped forward with a whoop and snatched up the fallen saber.
“Where’ll I give it to him, Dad?” he yelled exultantly. “Not to hurt him much, but to make him let up on you.”
“Keep out of this!” panted Dad.
He could not, now, use his sword with honor, and it would hamper him. Leaping back he unbuckled belt and all, flung them in Jimmy’s direction, and closed again.
Disregarding the broken hand, the Confederate threw both arms about the old man in a right-unloving embrace, and the two crashed to earth.
Over and over they rolled; the Confederate pounding and struggling like mad; Dad seeking merely to gain the upper hand.
Jimmy danced about them, saber threateningly poised, shouting:
“Surrender, you! Surrender or I’ll stick this sword into you!”