He did not stay there a moment, but rebounded as quickly as if he had been bumped down violently upon a spring bed.
There the comparison ends, for Pete uttered a yell of agony and rage, which made him rush again at the lad, grinning like a dog, and meaning to take a savage revenge. But to his astonishment Tom did not attempt to run away. He flew to meet him, when there was a sharp encounter, heavy blows were delivered on either side, and Pete went down, but this time on the grass.
He was up again directly, clinging still to the belief that his adversary was horribly afraid, and merely fighting in desperation; and once more he rushed at Tom, who was quite ready to rush at him.
And then for fully ten minutes there was a succession of desperate encounters. They were not in the slightest degree scientific; they were not what people call rounds, and there was no squaring, for everything was of the most singular description: arms flew about like windmill sails; fists came in contact with fists, arms, heads, faces, chests, and at times—in a curly or semi-circular kind of blow—with backs and shoulders. Now they were up, now they were down; then up again to close, hitting, wrestling, and going down to continue the hitting on the ground. Sometimes Tom was undermost, sometimes Pete occupied that position.
And so the fight went on desperately for the above-named ten minutes, at the end of which time they went down together with a heavy thud, after Pete had run in with his head down like a ram, receiving a couple of heavy cracks, but succeeding in gripping Tom about the waist, and trying to lift and throw him.
But the long, big, loose-jointed fellow had miscalculated his strength. Far stronger than Tom at the commencement, his powers had soon begun to fail, while, though panting heavily, thickset, sturdy, bulldog like Tom had plenty of force left in him still, the result being that Pete’s effort to lift and throw him proved a failure, ending in a dexterous wrench throwing him off his balance, and another sending him down with his adversary upon his chest.
The next minute Tom had extricated himself, Pete’s clutch giving way easily; a leg was dragged out from beneath him, and Tom sat panting on the grass, ready to spring up if Pete made a movement.
But there was none of an inimical nature, for Pete was completely beaten, and lay upon his back wagging his head from side to side, and drawing up and straightening his legs slowly, as if he were a frog swimming upside down.
Then he began to howl, with the tears streaming out of his eyes; but for the time being Tom was still too hot, and there was too much of the natural desire in him to injure his adversary for him to feel any compassion.
“Do you give in?” he shouted.