“Say, Quincy,” exclaimed Tom, “he's too heavily built for you. Let me tackle him.”
“Two to one! I s'pose that's what you city snobs call fair play.”
Bob removed his coat and threw it on the ground. “If you'll come one at a time, I'll lick you both.”
Quincy addressed Mary. “Don't be distressed. You may pardon his offence to you if you choose, but I'm going to settle my personal account with him. He doubted my word. I'm going to make him believe what I said, and by that time he'll be ready to apologize to you.”
Bob squared off, but Quincy did not raise his hands.
“Are you 'fraid? Don't you know how to put up your dukes?”
“I'm not a boxer,” said Quincy, “if that's what you mean. I'll look out for myself, rough and tumble.”
Bob rushed forward and aimed a blow at Quincy's face. It fell short, for Quincy retreated; then, springing forward, he gave Bob a violent kick on his left knee. As his opponent threw his right leg over to keep his balance he was obliged to lean forward; Quincy caught him by the collar and Bob went sprawling upon the ground. He leaped to his feet, red with rage.
“Why don't you fight fair?” he bellowed.
“You fight your way and I'll fight mine,” was Quincy's reply.