He had not troubled to remove his coat, anticipating an easy time with Patch; but now he did so, and rolled up his sleeves, moved by something in the bearing of the quiet boy before him.
Without any further argument, without any courtesies of combat, he and Fane flew at each other, and there was the sound of a collision and heavy blows. For a moment the spectators looked on with dismay, fearing that Fane would pay dearly for his temerity and get hopelessly smashed about. But in a minute or two their apprehension changed to excitement, and they set up a volley of cheering.
Fane was a dark horse—everybody recognized that at a glance. He quite obviously knew more than a little about boxing—and fighting, too. He had a good stance, and hit long and straight, and with both hands, like a professional.
Cummles was vastly shocked when, at the end of the first furious rush, he ran fairly upon a stiff left jab that split his lip instantly. Again and again he strove to get past that propped-out fist, but try as he would he could not get his head out of the way, and every time it was as if he had jammed his face against a beam of wood.
Then, too, Fane's right hand, with heavy body-swing behind it, followed up the left like a piston and thudded upon every portion of Cummles's anatomy in solid drives, until he began to feel acutely miserable, and, stung to desperation like a tormented bear, he commenced to hit with all his force, in wild swings that Fane dodged in good style. It was a magnificent exhibition of pluck and skill of the first water, opposed to brute force and doggedness. Fane seemed to be able to land hits at will. A trickle of blood from the bully's split lip coursed down that fellow's chin, and added nothing to his appearance.
"Go on, the bully-killer!"
The name had caught on, and the Crees yelled it in pure enjoyment, for they had all suffered more or less at Cummles's hands, and they appreciated to the full this repayment of his own medicine.
"Look at him—he's blowing like a grampus!"
Cummles was not in the best of training at this early stage of the term, and he was feeling the disadvantages of his condition. He was puffing badly and perspiring profusely. His movements slowed down and he seemed tired. Fane could not hit hard enough to knock the bigger boy over; but there was no doubt that he was cutting him about badly.
"Hand it out," yelled the bully's enemies, eager for the downfall of their tyrant. "You know, Fane!"