Billy was as clean built as a greyhound, muscled like a young gladiator, and learned where to hit and how to hit under an old master of the craft in Boston.
“Take your time, Billy,” encouraged Henri, “he’s a beef, and you’ll get him all right.”
Henri’s blood was running warm at the sight of his chum’s bruised face, and he would have violently resented any attempt to interfere in what he firmly believed would result in payment in full by the loose fighter who had provoked the battle and inflicted first injury.
Max began to exhibit distress from his exertions, which had ceased to count since the opening onslaught. He struck hard, but he struck at random. Enraged at the useless and wearing practice of hitting at something where it was not, the panting slugger made the break to get under Billy’s guard and clinch. It was a grievous error for him.
Billy, keen-eyed, caught him coming, and nothing but daylight between a ready fist and the knockout point of a square chin.
Biff! There was everything behind that blow in the way of steam.
The Bremen lad had been coming too fast for the impact to hurl him backward. He simply sagged at the knees, and dropped in a heap.
The fight was over, but not all of the trouble. Billy rushed to the side of his fallen foe, who, showing the whites of his eyes and rattling the breath in his throat, was viewed with alarm by the witnesses of the exciting mill.
“Give him air,” hoarsely urged the victor to the crowding white faces.
Henri ran to a platform nearby where water buckets were placed, and the chums gave all of the first aid in their experience to the vanquished.