But the infuriated man quickly recovered, and came at the stranger once more. This time he did not make such a fierce rush, but closed in as if he would prevent the youth from dodging.
The stranger laughed in the face of “Old Slugs,” as the wiper was often called. It was a peculiar laugh, and it added to the anger of the man.
“Laugh, drat ye!” he snarled. “I’ll make ye laugh outer t’other side of yer mouth pretty quick!”
“Marvelous!” smiled the youth, as, with uplifted hands, he slipped to one side and darted under the wiper’s arm like a flash. “You surprise me, sir!”
Still snarling, Slugs whirled about and let out with his left for the head of the nimble visitor. The blow was neatly ducked, and the stranger countered on the wiper’s wind.
A grunting puff came from the lips of Old Slugs, but he managed to avoid the youth’s straight drive for his jaw. At the same time he realized that had he not escaped the blow must have been a knockout.
Such pugilistic skill on the part of the boyish-looking visitor was astounding, but still the wiper felt confident that he would be able to end the fight with a single blow.
Within a very few seconds he discovered that it was almost impossible to get in that blow. Only once had he been able to hit the stranger, and that was a glancing blow that simply seemed to put the youth on his mettle.
Old Slugs was a bulldog to fight, and, for that reason, the watchers were confident that he would be the victor in the end. For all that the stranger rained blow after blow upon the wiper’s face and body, Slugs continued the fight as if he had not been hit. His face was cut by the hard knuckles of the visitor, and blood was running, but that made no difference.
“I should think there was a flea pesterin’ me if I didn’t know,” said the man, with a sneer.