“What’s all this for, anyway?” said Archer. “I’ve nothing against you to fight over.”
“I’ve got something against you,” returned Runyon, “and you ain’t goin’ to crawl out of it now!”
At this taunt a white spot appeared on each of Sam’s cheekbones, and an ominous light flashed into his eyes. He drew off his coat—slowly, because he wanted time to consider his opening. Runyon caught the change of color in his opponent’s face, and misinterpreted its meaning. Fearing that the long-suffering Archer might be still reluctant to use his fists, and that the éclat which he had striven for might at the last moment escape him, he stepped forward and swung the flat of his hand in a stinging slap against Sam’s cheek.
The effect far exceeded Runyon’s expectations. Sam’s long-suppressed anger at being forced into a ridiculous position flared into scorching fury. With every nerve alert and every muscle quivering, he flung the coat aside and leaped forward. He came too quick and too hard for his enemy’s artistic defence. The blow that should have felled him to the floor, wildly and feebly aimed, glanced harmless from his lowered, plunging head. The next instant, Sam’s arms were encircling Runyon’s waist, his head was planted safely against his opponent’s chest; the on-rush of his dive swept the boxer, drumming vainly on the muscle-armored shoulders, back against the wall. They struck the doorpost with a force that slammed Runyon’s head against the wood. Before he could recover, Archer caught his footing, and whirling his confused assailant about, threw him to the floor and fell heavily upon him.
What followed was totally contrary to the conduct expected of a well-mannered hero of a boy’s book. Never was mighty fighter so soon despoiled of his martial ardor, or so quickly brought to piteous appeal for mercy. The seconds together dragged the infuriated tiger from his prey. And while Kendrick in the corner of the study was bringing Archer back to his normal state of charity and patience, Brantwein was swabbing Runyon’s swelling, red-smeared face in the bedroom, and muttering a combination of consolations and invectives.
“He didn’t fight fair!” sputtered Runyon, when his breath returned and his throat was clear.
“Oh, shut up!” retorted the socialist. “You got what was coming to you.”
“Didn’t I tell you the way to fix him!” boasted Kendrick, when the door closed behind the battered, cowed Runyon and his disappointed second. “If you had fought according to ring rules, he’d have knocked you all over the place.”
“Supposing he had done it, what then?” asked Sam, looking ruefully at his knuckles.
“Then I should have insulted him,” answered Kendrick, promptly, “and if he did for me, some one else would have come up. He’d never have got through the year without a good whaling.”