He could not have carried out his threat, even had he so chosen. For the two men on the ground were so inextricably snarled together and were writhing and pummeling and shifting their relative positions with such suddenness, that the boy could not possibly attack one of them without an equal chance of injuring the other.
Presently they were on their feet, and Dad secured the hold he had been groping for. By use of a simple old wrestling trick known to athletes of those days as “bustling the bridge,” he whirled his foe fully a yard in air and brought him down breathless on his back with a thump that half-stunned the fallen man. As he fell Dad heard the shoulder bone crack.
Dad wasted no time. Kneeling on the Confederate’s forearms, he called to Jimmy:
“Son! That paper? Is it where I dropped it? The one I was reading when—”
“Lemme help you hold him down, Dad!” pleaded the boy, unhearing. “Maybe he’ll—”
“Jimmie!” roared Dad, the old voice vibrant with an authority the lad could not disregard. “Listen to me! (No, I don’t need any help. Keep away from his feet.) That bit of paper you found. The one that scared your horse. The one I was reading. Where is it? Find it! Quick!”
He bent to the task of quieting the wriggling Confederate; then went on:
“Find it! Is—”
“Here it is,” said Jimmy, sighting the fallen paper a few feet away and going to pick it up. “But, say, let me help—”
“Have you got it?” demanded Dad, far too busy with his fallen antagonist to look around.