Fagan had a deeper reason, in truth, for wanting to fight in the narrow space between the door of the Turtle and the swamp. He was banking on a quick, rough-and-tumble scuffle, and he knew, full well, that his extra weight, in close quarters, would give him a better chance. He was smart enough to realize that his wind wouldn’t be nearly as good as the younger, leaner, clean-muscled Tom’s; and the narrow, cramped space would tend to give him added advantage.
But the watching crowd overruled big Pat on that score.
“Ye may as well give in, Pat,” urged his crony, Pete.
Now the whole crowd moved over. Tom, stripped down the way Fagan was, had a determined fire in his blue eyes.
“Don’t fret, Ben,” he said to his brother, whose face was white and drawn, “I think I can take his measure.”
“Keep the big cuss runnin’ aroun’, lad,” put in the trapper, Sandy, giving Tom a friendly tap on the shoulder. “He’s soft from wild livin’, and in the long run ye’ll have his tongue a hangin’ out.”
In the bright moonlight, in the big open space beside the shanty, the two fighters squared off. Tom, slim and straight, but sinewy, was outweighed by at least thirty pounds. Pat Fagan’s sloping shoulders and hairy chest and long arms gave him an ominous, bear-like appearance.
The onlookers knew right off what kind of a fight each contestant would try to make it. Fagan would be for rushing in close, grabbing, wrestling, hugging; mauling Tom after he had him on the ground. Tom’s tactics would be to keep off the burly soldier by quick footwork, sidestepping, dancing away, darting in cunningly with sharp, swift jabs; blows that would sting big Pat, tantalize him, make him mad, keep him charging in like a wild bull, until his wind was gone. Then would come Tom’s big chance, smashing straight in with hard punches that carried the whole weight of his body behind them.
The watching crowd stood in a wide circle, bodies tense, fists clenched, heads poked forward, eying every move of big Pat and Tom, as they warily circled and edged in. Ben Gordon’s heart was pumping fiercely. Would Tom be able to fight his kind of fight? Or would the ponderous Pat succeed in overpowering him with his sheer, brute strength? If Pat could do it, then it would be a speedy fracas, and soon over with. If Tom, then it would probably drag along for half an hour. Ben’s pulses beat savagely when Fagan suddenly lunged.
As Pat rushed forward, he worked his brawny arms like a windmill. His wide swings, though clumsy, were heavy and they drove Tom back. One of them caught the lad a glancing blow on the cheek, leaving a red, raw streak. But Tom was the better boxer. While he was forced to yield ground, his fists, at the same time, were working straight and true, like pistons. One hefty punch cut Pat’s lip and made the blood run.