Woodville, stepping lightly on his toes and feinting with his left, caught Dick on his cheek bone with his right. Then he sought to spring away, but Dick, although staggered, swung heavily and struck Woodville on the forehead. The Mississippian went down full length on the slippery grass but jumped to his feet in an instant. Blood was flowing from his forehead, whence it ran down his nose and fell to the earth, drop by drop. Dick himself was bleeding from the cut on his cheek bone.
The two faced each other, cool, smiling, but resolute enemies.
“First knockdown for you,” said Woodville, “but I mean that the second shall be mine.”
“Go in and try.”
But Woodville drew back a little, and as Dick followed, looking for an opening he was caught again a heavy clip on the side of the head. He saw stars and was not able to return the blow, but he sprang back and protected himself once more with his full guard, while he regained his balance and strength.
“Am I a firebug?” asked Woodville tauntingly.
Dick considered. This youth interested him. There was no denying that Woodville had great cause for anger, when he found his father's house occupied by a regiment of the enemy. He considered it defilement. The right or wrong of the war had nothing to do with it. It was to him a matter of emotion.
“I'll take back the epithet 'firebug,'” he said, “but I must stick to my purpose of carrying you to Colonel Winchester.”
“Always provided you can: Look out for yourself.”
The Mississippian, who was wonderfully agile, suddenly danced in—on his toes it seemed to Dick—and landed savagely on his opponent's left ear. Then he was away so quickly and lightly that Dick's return merely cut the air.