“Come on, get up!” said Ross.
Harrigan, looking at the white face and gleaming eyes above him, realized that his prestige as a “scrapper” was gone. He thrust out his hand and pushed Ross from him, staggering to his feet. As the trout leaps, so David’s fist shot up and smashed to Harrigan’s chin. The Irishman staggered, his arms groping aimlessly.
“Get him! Get him!” shouted Avery.
Ross took one step forward and swung a blow to Harrigan’s stomach. With the groan of a wounded bull, the Irishman wilted to a gasping bulk of twitching arms and legs.
For a moment the men stood spellbound. Fisty Harrigan, the bulldog of the Great Western, had been whipped by a “green guy”—a city man. They moved toward the prostrate Fisty, looking at him curiously. Ross walked to the chopping-log in the dooryard, and sat down.
“Thought he bruk your arm,” said Avery, coming toward him.
“Never touched it,” replied Ross. “Much obliged for the pointer. He nearly had me, though, that time when we mixed it up.”
One of the men brought water and threw it on Harrigan, who finally got to his feet. Ross jumped from the log and ran to him.
“All right, Harrigan,” he said. “I’m ready to finish the job.”
Harrigan raised a shaking arm and motioned him away.