“What might you be doing?” the man inquired.
“I'm cutting up your snares,” Festing replied. “What have you got to say about it?”
The other gave him a slow, sullen look. “Only that you'd better leave the snares alone. How many rabbits?”
“Four,” said Festing, pulling up another snare and cutting the noose.
“Then that will be five shillings. I'll say nothing about the snares; wire's cheap.”
Festing laughed. “It's a dead bluff. Light out of this field before I put you off.”
The man hesitated, his eyes fixed on Festing's hardset face. Perhaps a way out might have been found, but the lad precipitated matters. Running to the mouth of the burrow, he picked up a half-dead rabbit that was trying to crawl away, and leered at Festing as he raised his stick. The blow was not struck, for Festing leaped across the grass and next moment the boy fell beside the burrow. He was unhurt, but too surprised to move, because he had never seen anybody move as fast as the man who threw him down.
Then Festing heard steps behind, and turned in time to guard his head with his right arm. It felt numb and he was half dazed by a shock of pain, but he struck savagely with his left hand and his knuckles jarred on bone. The other's stick dropped, and when they grappled Festing was relieved to feel his arm was not broken. His muscles were hard and well trained, his blood was hot, and a struggle of the kind was not altogether a novelty. When liquor is smuggled into a construction camp, a section boss must sometimes use physical force or relinquish his command.
He staggered and nearly fell as his leg was seized. It looked as if the lad had come to his master's help; but one could not be fastidious, and a savage backward kick got rid of the new antagonist. The other was powerful and stubborn, and Festing spent a strenuous few minutes before he threw him into the sand beside the burrow.
“I'm pretty fresh and ready to start again if you are,” he said. “Still I reckon you have had enough.”