“Barker’s got him scared, so’s he dasn’t lift a hand.”
But the backwoodsman who had spoken to Walter smiled approvingly as he watched him.
“Not too quick with your judgments, gentlemen,” said he. “You’ll see something before long. Barker’s got some one at last who fights him in the right way.”
Like a bull, the bullet-headed bruiser lurched after his nimbly stepping opponent. His arms swung wildly and savagely. Suddenly grasping an opportunity, Walter stepped in and drove his right fist into the other’s short ribs. Barker’s heavy face twitched with pain, and he wavered for an instant. Then young Jordan’s left hand shot out and found a landing place in the pit of the bully’s stomach.
That these two blows had a serious effect was instantly evident. Barker’s face turned a sort of sickly gray and he shook his round head in a fury. But he had courage; and so once more he came on, thrashing out with his fists more awkwardly than before.
Ned Chandler, never missing a move of the two contestants, had seen the landing of Walter’s blows with delight. But he also saw the tremendous power in the bully’s awkward swings, and his pleasure was mingled with a fear that by some chance one of them would find a mark.
“Watch yourself, Walt,” he kept repeating. “Don’t let him get one of those in on you.”
But Walter was careful, and he stepped about actively and with a purpose in every movement. Getting the bruiser into the right position he feinted him into a mad whirling of fists—then, one—two—the powerful body blows were driven home once more.
“That’s it!” cried the tall backwoodsman, much pleased, and wearing a wide smile. “That’s it! Keep it up, youngster. You’ll bring him down like a coon out of a gum tree.”
Barker flinched more under this second pair of blows than he had under the first. And his attack grew slacker.