“Yes,” said Surgoff surlily.
“All right. Then go.”
Surgoff sprang forward with a cry, apparently bent on disposing of his opponent with a single blow. In spite of the fact that he knew well the power of the Englishman when it came to fists, he threw caution to the winds. It was perfectly plain that he considered himself more than a match for Jack.
Jack avoided the rush by sidestepping neatly and as the Russian was carried by by the force of his rush, Jack planted a heavy blow solidly above the right ear. The big Russian went reeling. Jack leaped lightly forward and before his opponent could recover himself, he had stepped around him and drove a left to the jaw.
The Russian covered as best he could and gave ground. Jack followed him closely, and succeeded in driving three blows under the other’s guard. Then the Russian rushed into a clinch.
He clung to the lad tenaciously and it was only by a violent effort that Jack succeeded in hurling him away. Surgoff went sprawling on the ground. Jack stepped back and waited for his fallen foe to rise.
“I don’t want to end this too quickly,” he said between set teeth.
Surgoff staggered to his feet and raised his guard, waiting for the lad to come to him. Apparently he had had enough of rushing tactics and had determined to put up a defensive battle. Nothing loath, Jack advanced, treading lightly on his toes.
The lad feinted sharply with his left for the head, and drove his right fist squarely to the pit of the Russian’s stomach. Surgoff doubled up like a jack-knife and fell forward to the ground, where he rolled and tumbled about for the space of several minutes. Again Jack stood by quietly, waiting for him to rise.
No sooner was the man on his feet again that Jack rushed forward. Again he feinted with his left—this time for the stomach—and as the Russian lowered his guard to ward off the blow, Jack’s right fist caught him on the nose. Jack had drawn first blood.