“Oh, I thought you fancied it was a snowball that you were going to throw at him.”
I burst out laughing.
“Silence! ’Tention! Now then, again. Wait a minute. Now, look here, Burr: as he hits at you, stop it with your right arm as you did before, and just at the same moment you push your left arm out full length, and lean forward straight at his face. Don’t hit at him, only keep your left out straight and lean forward suddenly—like this.”
He showed me what he meant, and I balanced myself on my legs, and imitated him as well as I could, to get the swing forward he wished, and we prepared for the next encounter.
“I’m going to hit straight out this time, Frank, so look out.”
“Oh yes, he’ll look out,” cried Lomax. “Now, then, take it on your right arm, my lad. Off with you.”
Mercer struck out at me awkwardly, and, as I received the blow at my chest full on my forearm, I bent forward sharply, not striking, but giving what seemed to me to be a push with my stiffened left arm straight at Mercer’s face, when, to my great astonishment, he went down on the floor and sat there staring at me holding the soft glove up against his nose.
“What did you do that for?” he cried angrily. “He said I was to hit, not you.”
“Because I told him,” said Lomax, patting me on the shoulder. “Bravo, bravo! That was science against brute force, my lad; I thought it would astonish you.”
“But he hit ever so hard,” cried Mercer, “and it took me off my guard, because it was I who was to hit.”