“Max wants a fight with your friend,” he explained, “and if it was me he couldn’t get it, for he’s a tricky one and as strong as a bull. But I just had to do this to get rid of him.”
“You tell that fellow that we don’t want anything to do with him,” was Henri’s message to the challenger.
The next morning, while many of the machines were aloft in practice and test flights, and the aviation helpers were grouped at the far end of the parade ground, Max deliberately called Billy an unbearable name, and followed the insult with a ringing slap on the cheek of the boy from Bangor.
The fat was in the fire!
Instantly the circle widened, and in the center two husky youngsters went at it hammer and tongs.
There were no gloves, no seconds, and no referee with rules up his sleeve.
Billy ruled a strong favorite, but Henri alone made a noise about it, for the others were reluctant to take a chance of offending Max, unless they were assured in advance that he was going to be thoroughly whipped.
It certainly did not appear that way in the opening of the bout, for Max had gashed Billy’s forehead with a full knuckle blow, and also landed a rib-cracker on the latter’s body.
Billy now sparred warily, seeking time to recover from the body blow, which had proved the most serious, though the bleeding bruise on the forehead made the most show of injury.
He kept his antagonist on the move, at the same time keeping out of range of the fists swinging like windmills. Max had the strength, and a certain skill as a rough-and-tumble fighter, but he also had too much flesh on his bones, and little science as a boxer.