“Wonder who blacked his shoes?”
“Ain’t that hat a beauty? He can comb his hair without taking it off.”
“That one suspender must have cost him a good deal.”
“By gracious, he’s going to chew us up,” laughed the tallest, as the log approached land; “stand back, boys, you promised him to me, and I don’t want either of you to say you helped me to knock him out in the third round.”
The next minute the log was so close that the nimble-footed Ben leaped ashore and strode straight for the valiant Rutherford, who immediately threw himself in “position.” His attitude was certainly artistic, with his left foot thrown forward, his right fist clinched and held across his breast, and his left extended ready to be shot forward into the first opening that his enemy presented.
But it is one thing to assume the proper pugilistic attitude; it is altogether another to act the part of a trained pugilist.
“Come on, Country!” called out the exultant Rutherford; “but I hope you’ve bid your friends farewell.”
The other boys stood back and watched the singular contest. I carefully approached so as to be ready to protect Ben when it should become necessary.
The brave fellow never hesitated, but the instant he landed lightly on the shore he went straight for Rutherford, who, it was plain, was slightly surprised and disconcerted by his unscientific conduct. But the city youth kept his guard well up, and the moment Ben was within reach he struck a violent blow intended for the face.
But Ben dodged it easily, dropping his head and running with cat-like agility directly under the guard of his antagonist, who, before he could understand precisely what it meant, found himself clasped around the waist and thrown on his back with such violence that a loud grunt was forced from him, and his handsome new hat rolled rapidly down into the water.