And thus it went for some time more,—with the ponderous soldier ever charging and the agile lad always cleverly evading his rushes. Then, all at once, Tom changed his strategy. His keen eye detected that the mountainous Fagan was half groggy and badly blown. Quick as a bounding deer, the boy sprang forward, catching the surprised soldier with his guard partly down. Tom bounced first his right fist, and then his left, off Pat’s face. But the heavy-set fellow wasn’t knocked over. His head rocked, he was stung hard, but he lunged blindly forward, notwithstanding. One big hand caught Tom by the arm, while the other crept halfway about the boy’s waist.
The next moment or so was a whirlwind of excitement. The crowd was all jumping up and down and yelling like wild Indians. Tom, agile as he was, couldn’t break free, and he couldn’t get enough force in his blows, cramped as he was, to put Fagan down for good. It was a desperate tussle, now, to see which fighter could throw the other and come down on top. It was just the kind of fight that Tom had tried to avoid. But he was still strong and quick, while the hulking Pat was muscle-weary and spent; so the match now looked pretty even, in spite of the soldier’s greater bulk.
Suddenly, the wily Tom got his heel back of Pat’s and tripped him handily. Pat fell hard, so hard that his savage clutch loosened. With a quick twist of his body Tom wrenched himself free and bounced to his feet again, alert for whatever might come.
Fagan lay flat on his back for a half-minute, panting heavily and looking at Tom with an evil gleam in his eye. Finally, he got to a sitting posture. Then, as he put one hand back of him to help him rise to his feet, he felt in the grass a broken axe-handle that had been thrown aside there. Pat’s fingers closed tightly over the hardwood handle. With a murderous look on his face he lurched swiftly to his feet.
“Watch sharp, Tom!” yelped Ben frantically. “He’s got a club!”
Fagan swung back his brawny arm. “I’ll cave in yur skull, yuh young polecat!” he snarled at Tom.
Before the big ruffian could strike, however, Sandy the trapper, Ben and three or four others of the onlookers threw themselves upon him. With great effort they dragged him cursing and fuming to the earth.
“Thur’ll be none of yer foul play, Pat Fagan!” rasped Sandy.
“He didn’t fit fair!” glowered the enraged soldier. “I’l have his blasted hide some day, that I will!”
“Oh, shet yer big mouth,” ordered the trapper sternly, as he and the others struggled to hold down the half-crazed man. “It was a whale of a fight, an’ he licked yuh fair an’ square.”