Fighting and boxing had never been favorite forms of entertainment with me, but this contest absorbed me. It was primitive, instinctive,—the rage of Rodman pitted against the angry indignation of Rivers.
I had not thought of the latter as a weakling, but neither had I looked upon him as a strong man, and I should have judged that in a bout with Rodman he would have gone under.
But not so; his lean, gaunt frame was full of latent strength, his bony fists full of dexterity.
He rushed in, fell back, sidestepped, with the dazzling quickness of a trained fighter. He showed knowledge and skill that amazed me.
Rodman, too, fought for all he was worth, but he impressed me as being not an experienced fighter,—and not a fair one.
Wise, too, was watching Rivers with wonder and admiration, and he also kept his alert gaze on Rodman.
Fascinated, we watched as Rodman clinched, and Rivers with a smile, almost of contempt, threw him off. Then Rodman, bellowing like an angry bull, made a head-on rush for Rivers, who neatly sidestepped, letting his furious antagonist have it on the side of his head.
Even this didn’t knock any sense into Rodman, and he was about to plunge again, when Wise, seeing a chance, said:
“Now, Brice!”
Springing in, I hooked my arm around Rivers’ neck, and yanked him away from Rodman, now struggling, half-spent, in Wise’s grasp.