GETTING BACK TO THE BOAT.
At another time Rex Kingdon would have been more careful about striking such a blow with his bare fist, no matter how angry he might have been with his opponent, for there is danger of cracking a knuckle when one's hand is ungloved.
The foot Joe Bootleg had trampled on, hurt him cruelly, however; he saw, too, that the Indian meant to repeat his unfair tactics. So it was "down and out" for the Indian, and the Walcott youth sprang away.
"Run, Mid!" he hissed. "This bunch is getting lively. There!"
Inside the tent somebody suddenly yelled: "That's right, Horrors! Slit up the back canvas. We'll show 'em!"
"They know there are only two of us, I guess," said Midkiff. "But don't you hate to show the white feather?"
"Too dark right now for anybody to see whether our plumage is white or some other color," chuckled Rex. "The race is not always to the swift or the battle to the strong."
"Huh!" grunted his friend. "Where's that fellow who downed you?"
"I downed him. But he's coming back to life again," Rex said, having gone back for another look at the dazed Indian boy to make sure. "Whew! He's strong, that chap. But he don't know much about using his fists. Here they come! Scoot!"
He picked up the flash-lamp he had dropped in the fracas, and set the pace down the hill. But he hobbled, and Midkiff immediately noticed his chum's lameness, although they were out of the radiance of the lighted tent in half a minute.