“Go for him!” he weakly muttered. “Knock the stuffing out of him!”
“Hold on, gents!” urged the tramp, once more holding up his hand. “I acknowledge you can do it if you all jump on me. There ain’t no question about that. I’ll take you one at a time; but I throw up the sponge if you’re going to tackle me in a bunch.”
“Let me git at him!” urged Tapper Mullin. “Mebbe he can wrastle, but when it comes to handling his dukes with me I think he’ll be out of it. Where’s the gloves, Pete? Bring out the mitts and I will pound him to a pulp!”
The prospect of a fistic encounter delighted the rough crowd and they burst into applause, wildly calling for the gloves.
“I acknowledge, gents,” said the hobo, “that you’ve seen me at my best. As a wrastler I’ve made my reputation. When it comes to the gloves, I am nothing but a second-rater.”
This seemed to increase Mullin’s desire to get at the stranger.
“Be quiet as you can, gentlemen,” said Daley, the proprietor, as he fished out a set of hard gloves from beneath the bar. “You know my place is strictly quiet and respectable.”
“Where’s my second?” inquired the tramp, as he inspected the gloves. “Ain’t I got no one ter back me up? Is this whole bunch agin’ me?”
To the surprise of all, Skip Billings immediately stepped forward.
“I’m behind you, pal,” he said. “A man that can throw me over his head is pretty nifty, and I’m goin’ to prophesy that you make it lively for Tapper.”