"Sure!" answered half a dozen voices.
Big Jack stopped Joe in mid-career. "Let's do everything proper," he said grimly.
By this time all were up. Of one accord they shoved the trestles back against the wall and kicked the boxes underneath. Every breast responded to the thrill of the keenest excitement known to man—a fight with fists.
Sam and Joe, obeying a clothed creature's first impulse, wriggled out of their coats and flung them on the ground. Joe took off his boots. Sam was wearing moccasins.
Young Coulson came to Sam with tears of vexation actually standing in his eyes. He gripped Sam's hand.
"I can't be present at a thing like this," he said. "Oh, damn the luck! I'd lose my stripes if it came out. But I'm with you. I hope you'll lick the tar out of him! I'll be watching through the window," he added in a whisper. He ran out.
Big Jack took the centre of the floor. "I'll referee this affair if agreeable to both," he said.
"Suits me," replied Sam briefly.
Jack pointed out their respective corners and called for a second for each. Several volunteered to help Joe. He chose young Mattison.
Sam remained alone in his corner. While his pluck had won him friends, there was no man who wished to embrace a cause which all thought was hopeless. Young Joe was a formidable figure. He had calmed down now.