“He couldn’t ’thout hittin’ Mart when he was in Dave’s arms.”
“This ain’t no prize fight under rules. He’d oughter finished it up when he had a chance. He won’t get another.”
The spectators were greatly excited. They applauded the stranger as much as they dared, but were universal in their belief that he must get the worst of it in the end.
But still the youth smiled and danced about the man, who was beginning to rush less and fight more slowly. The roundhouse men began to realize that Slugs’ efforts were telling on him, while the stranger seemed just as fresh as at the beginning.
“Oh, why don’t ye keep still a minute?” grated the battered wiper, in disgust.
“All right,” was the cool answer. “I will.”
Then, to the amazement of all, the youth stood quite still, carelessly dropping his hands at his sides.
Slugs rushed, a cry of satisfaction breaking from his lips as he made a clutch to gather the other into his grasp, but his arms closed on empty air, and he felt something catch him about the knees, and he seemed to spin over and over to strike the ground with an awful thud.
The crafty stranger had ducked close to the ground, caught him low, about the legs, and thrown him into the air.
It was an amazing feat, and the witnesses could hardly believe the evidence of their eyes.