And with this he worked his way through the throng until he stood at Walter’s side.
“Youngster,” said he in a low voice, “here’s a word of advice. Use your feet. Step around. And don’t hit him around the face or head. You’ll only hurt your hands, and do him no harm. Go for his body when you get the chance. He can’t stand such blows, and anybody who can keep hitting him there can beat him.”
Except for Ned’s caution, “Don’t let him cripple you,” the words of the backwoodsman were the last that young Jordan heard before the battle opened.
“DON’T LET HIM CRIPPLE YOU”
He saw Barker advancing toward him, and stepped out to meet him. The bruiser held his arms awkwardly, his small round head was lowered, and coming within distance he leaped at his opponent without any ceremony. Swish! swish! went his short, powerful arms. Young Jordan allowed the first to swing by him and “ducked” under the other. Then his left went out, catching Barker flush in the mouth, and the right hand followed like a flash, landing on the bruiser’s jaw.
However, though both had been strong blows, sufficient to have staggered most persons, Barker did not seem to regard them at all, but pressed on, his arms lunging and swinging wickedly. But both Jordan’s hands felt the impact against the fellow’s bony front, and as he stepped actively here and there avoiding the other’s rushes and watching him narrowly, this thought formed itself in his mind:
“Whoever it was that just spoke to me seems to know what he was talking about as far as Barker’s head and face go. They’re like iron. And, so, if he was right in that, maybe he was right in the other thing. I’ll give it a trial.”
A dozen times he had opportunities to land blows upon Barker’s face, but he refused to strike. The ring of onlookers seized upon his disinclination and began to jeer.
“He’s afraid!” cried one.