“How is this for a flea bite?”
The laughing stranger struck Slugs a terrible blow on the chin, hurling him backward into the arms of one of the spectators.
For a second the ruffian was dazed. He lay limply in the arms of the man, his eyes rolling, while he feebly lifted one hand to his chin.
Then, with astonishing swiftness, he recovered, uttering a howl of fury as he leaped out to confront the stranger once more.
Now the wiper made several attempts to close with the visitor, but each time he was avoided or beaten back with severe punishment. It was plain that the youth did not intend to let Slugs get hold of him if he could help it.
“If Slugs ever gets a hand on him, he’ll tear him limb from limb,” said one of the watching wipers.
“Sure,” nodded the other. “And he’ll get him before long. All that thumping don’t bother Mart.”
“That one on the chin shook him up for a minute.”
“Notice how quick he recovered?”
“Yes; but the boy didn’t foller up his advantage.”