Chapter Three.
An Old-Fashioned Fight.
Serge had been standing leaning over his crook, but now, taking it in both hands and holding it before him, he stepped quickly towards the big lad, who backed more and more away; but his effort to escape was in vain, for, quick as thought, Serge brought down his crook as if to strike the lad a violent blow, making him wince and bound aside, when, before he knew what was happening, he was hooked by the leg like an obstinate swine, and dragged, yelling and calling for help, out into the middle of the stone shed.
“Got you,” said Serge, coolly. “There, it’s no use to kick. Here, you other boys, close up and see fair.”
Satisfied at once that they were outside the trouble, the other lads began to grin, and, obeying the old soldier, they closed in together, whispering to their companion who had just been hauled out, as they believed, to bear the brunt of the expected punishment.
Their whispers were ill received by the selected victim, who, as soon as his leg was released from the crook, made as if to back away again; but his companions put a stop to this and began urging him on, trying to incite him to begin, he reluctant and resisting all the time, till his ire was roused by Marcus, who, at a word from the old soldier, dashed in to make a beginning, using his fists upon his enemy so well that, at the end of two or three minutes, the latter threw himself down, howling dismally and covering his face with his arms.
“Here, you are not half done!” cried Serge, poking him in the ribs with the butt end of his crook. “Get up, will you, or I’ll make the other fellows stand you in a corner to be thrashed.”
“Oh, let him be, Serge,” cried Marcus. “I did give it him well, and hit him as hard as I could.”