And then, all the horror of the Crees found voice, and they exclaimed together:
"Foul—it's a foul!"
"Scrag the dirty fouler!"
The ring pressed round about Cummles with angry cries, for the bully had offended all rules of fair play by his action in striking Fane when that youngster had lowered his hands. For a moment Cummles thought that he was to be mobbed, and he drew back on the defensive; then Fane slowly rose from the ground.
"Stand back," said Fane, "this is my job—let me finish it!"
With the words he again attacked the bully furiously. His blows were hard and fast, but he did not lose his head. Grimly Cummles strove to turn the tide, to repeat that one tremendous blow; but always Fane was just a little too quick for him.
Finally Cummles came to the end of his resources, and bitterly bitter though the admission was to him, he had to grant that he was beaten. Thoroughly exhausted, and much damaged by Fane's blows, he dropped his hands.
"Good enough," he mumbled through swollen lips. "I'm done—hold off."
Then for the first time Fane smiled; and like a cloak, his old nervous manner fell about him once more.
"You'll shake hands?" he asked. "Yes?"