Joe rushed back and swung again. Once more Sam ducked, this time as he went under Joe's arm, contriving to land an upper-cut, not of sufficient force to really shake the mountain, but driving him mad with rage.
Joe wheeled about, both arms going like flails. This was what Sam desired. He kept out of reach. He kept Joe running from one side of the room to the other. Joe was not built for running. At the end of the round, the big man was heaving for breath like a foundered horse.
Such was the general style of the battle. The spectators, pressed against the wall to give them plenty of room, roared with excitement.
In the beginning the cries were all for Joe. Then Sam's clever evasions began to arouse laughter. Finally a voice or two was heard on Sam's side. This was greatly stimulating to Sam, who had steeled himself to expect no favour, and correspondingly depressing to Joe.
For three rounds Sam maintained his tactics without receiving a serious blow. He was trying to break the big man's wind—not good at the best—and to wear him out in a vain chase. He aimed to make him so blind with rage he could not see to land his blows. To this end he kept up a running fire of taunts.
"I shan't have to knock you out, Blow-Hard. You're doing for yourself nicely. Come on over here. Pretty slow! Pretty slow! Who was your dancing teacher, Joe? You're getting white around the lips now. Bum heart. You won't last long!"
Between rounds little Musq'oosis, watching all that Mattison did, did likewise for his principal.
Finally the spectators began to grow impatient with too much footwork. They required a little blood to keep up their zest. Sam was blamed.
"Collide! Collide!" they yelled. "Is this a marathon or hare and hounds? Corner him, Joe! Smash him! Stand, you cook, and take your punishment!"
Big Jack fixed the last speaker with a scowl.