Even at this juncture Ned was by no means defeated. His blood was roused, and he felt that he was battling for his life. Big Mike tried to sit astride of him, but he might as well have tried to sit on an eel. Ned wriggled and twisted, and out of the rough-and-tumble behold the picture of Ned on the top; with Big Mike’s hands clenched in his hair, it is true; but nevertheless, Ned on top!
To off-set the hair-grip, his thumb was against the side of Big Mike’s nose, pressing that individual’s head sidewise until his cheek was in the slush.
It was not a picture of beauty. Big Mike’s lips were bleeding, and Ned’s left eye was inflamed where Big Mike had brutally stuck a thumb, to gouge. The faces of both were red, and Ned’s necktie was streaming over his shoulder.
Nor was the picture pleasing to Big Mike’s cronies. Their champion was in the worse position of the two. So the Conners, with a curt command: “Aw, get off of him, will you!” jumped in and obligingly turned the pair over.
This was the South Beaufort way of winning fights.
In the meantime little Zu-zu Pearce, leaving the other girls, who, with awe-stricken faces and throbbing hearts, unable to tear themselves away, lingered on the outskirts, ran with all her might for the hill. Up the slope she labored, slipping and puffing, until near the top she overtook her brother, and Hal and a half dozen others, trudging with their bob for the crest and a coast.
“Tom!” screamed Zu-zu, frantically. “Oh, Tom—the South Beaufort fellows have got Ned Miller at the bottom of the hill, and are beating him awful! They won’t let him fight Big Mike fair.”
“Gee! Come on, fellows!” exclaimed Tom; and in a jiffy the bob was jerked about, and with the boys recklessly piling on was speeding down the track, for the fight.
Close in their wake sped also a following of single sleds—for the news had spread like lightning.