"And he don't drink no whiskey."
"And Jo Kelsy says he never carries a gun."
"Don't never go gamin'?"
"No," answered Jo Kelsy, "he ain't never been no hunter."
"Hain't never killed nothin'?" Ole Bar questioned in amazement.
"Not just fer fun. Once he killed a pant'er what dropped on him without saying nothin'. He ketched it around the neck and choked its eyes out and skinned it. He said he wouldn't have bothered it if it hadn't acted so nasty and climbed his frame without warnin'."
There was silence. No such case had come up for discussion. Here was a young giant who could strangle a panther—perhaps a bear. Yet he didn't bother them if they let him alone, and he carried new-born rabbits in his pocket, and didn't drink whiskey.
"Offutt's got him put up against any man in Sangamon County; says he can out-run, out-wrestle, out-throw, out-whip the best man that can be put up. He's bragged till folks has forgot about Jack Armstrong of Clary Grove."
The eyes of the company turned to Jack Armstrong, the champion wrestler of Sangamon County. Built square as an ox, his mighty muscle gave the suggestion of the monarchy of muscular force. Added to his force of muscle was unusual quickness, and added to this, as the Clary Grove crowd knew, was the art of a trick that was held permissible by the gang as a last resort in holding championship of the county.