“Yah!” shouted Hans, triumphantly. “Vot you toldt me a minute ago, ain’d id? I know I peen goin’ to done dot! Oh, I vas a holy derror somedimes!”
“Gol—darn—yeou!” gasped Ephraim. “Yeou hit—me—below—the—belt!”
“Yaw,” nodded Hans; “you pet I done dot. I known der blace vot takes uf you der vindt oudt, und I don’d haf a latter to climb higher up mit.”
Ephraim was mad. As soon as he could straighten up, he sailed into Hans in earnest, and the spectators shouted with delight at the spectacle.
To the surprise of all, the fat little Dutchman proved a rather stiff antagonist for the Vermonter. It made no difference to Hans where he struck Ephraim, and he managed to duck under the Yankee lad’s wicked blows.
In their excitement, the boxers did not observe that they were working toward the open slip, assisted by Frank and his friends, who pressed upon them from the opposite side.
Suddenly, as he was being pressed close, Hans dodged under Ephraim’s guard and clutched the country lad about the waist. Gallup wound his long arms around Hans’ neck, and they swayed and strained in each other’s grasp.
It was uncertain whether they staggered of their own accord or were given a slight push, but all at once they reeled and went over into the slip.
Them was a great splash as they struck the water, and they vanished from view, still locked in each other’s arms.
In a moment they came up, having broken apart.