The round-hander that was intended to smash our Spider, went, like its forerunner the rock, harmlessly over his head, fended off and upwards by his left arm, whilst with his right he countered his man full in the mouth, sending him down with a crash which would have had a stunning effect had not the oarsman lit in the ooze which lined the bank.
This gave the Spider time to get his wind, which, owing to his want of exercise of late, was none of the best, as he remarked to Tom,—
“Bit breezy inside, long sea voyage against training; but we’re getting on, eh?”
“My word you are,” was Tom’s answer; “you did get on; gave him fits.”
“Round two,” cried the Spider, as the boatman, after rinsing his mouth in the salt water, prepared to renew the combat.
This time the ferryman, looking more nasty than ever, and covered with blood, came at Fulrake literally like a bull, as with head down he tried to butt the little man off his legs.
The Spider met this charge with a terrific left-hander, which he intended for his adversary’s face, but which, owing to the man’s dropping his head so low, struck on the top of his skull; this he followed with a smart delivery from his right, which landed on the ferryman’s jaw as he staggered from the first blow, and down he went again, this time rolling under the bows of his own boat; and there he lay still.
But Tom thought it time to interfere, so stepped up to the man and asked him if he had had enough.
The boatman looked up in a dazed way, hardly able to articulate, his mouth being full of ooze and blood.
“Enough!” he said; “I’ve got too much! Is he gone? All my front teeth are driven in, and I believe my jaw is broken!” Then, getting slowly up, he approached his lips close to Tom, and said, in a confidential whisper, “That young’un hits like a kick from a bullock!”