Andy looked down on the mother goldfinch as it lay in his hand. He felt the quick throbbing of its heart grow fainter and fainter. One wing was broken and its white breast was stained with blood. The bird’s head drooped lower, and a film settled over its bright eyes. The beautiful wings stretched rigidly, and it gasped convulsively, sending a tiny stain of crimson from its mouth that felt warm on his palm.
Andy’s face became colourless. His hand shook violently as he placed the dead bird tenderly on the ground. “Connie dear,” he said, in a voice that trembled, “I ain’t a whole man, but ’ere’s where you see ’arf a man goin’ into battle to give all he’s got.”
He removed his coat and threw it from him. Through a rage-mist Andy saw the grinning foreigner throw up his arms in an absurdly unscientific posture of defence. Like a mad cat, Andy launched himself straight at his husky opponent. The grin was wiped from the big man’s face by Andy’s compact fist, as it smacked resonantly on the end of his thick nose with a snap like that of a whip, and with a skilled force that brought blood.
Andy’s years of training boxers now stood him in good stead. He well knew that a small man would stand little chance in long range fighting, and he kept well inside the larger man’s wild swings. With his blond head tucked against his adversary’s body, his fists worked like pistons; he kept sending short jolts to the body that brought heavy grunts every time they landed.
Connie was delirious with excitement.
“Hit him, Andy! Hit him! Good! Good!”
And then she groaned as the big man’s hand found Andy’s throat and flung him to the ground. Little Andy was up immediately, but stepped into a swinging fist that caught him over the eye and sent him sprawling. Undaunted, he came to his feet, waited warily for an opening, and again sprang under the big man’s guard.
Andy’s fist shot up in a ripping upper-cut that was judged to a nicety, catching his opponent on the point of his chin with force enough to send him rocking on his heels, and before he could recover himself the same fist, accompanied by its mate, beat a tattoo on his solar plexus.
In desperation the bewildered man wound his arms about the little Australian and lifted him high in air. Like a game bulldog Andy hung on. Though his feet were off the ground, he clung to the big man’s body like a leech.
Again the big hands felt for Andy’s throat, and he was flung six feet to strike with a thump that shook every bone in his body. Connie cried out in fear as he narrowly avoided a brutal blow aimed at his head.