“What, an’ spoil our fun?” demanded the old man. “No, stranger, it won’t do to back out now.”
“I have no intention of backing out, Mr. Peters,” said Noel Brooke firmly.
“That’s right! I like your pluck,” said the old man in a tone of relief, for he feared he would lose a spectacle which he expected to enjoy. He would have felt as badly disappointed, as the visitors to Jerome Park if the races should be postponed.
Noel Brooke had taken stock of his long-limbed adversary, and the result was that he felt encouraged. Ben had long arms, very long arms, but his figure, though muscular, was loose-jointed, and his motion indicated that he was slow. Now rapidity of movement is a very important thing in a contest such as was to take place between these two.
“Mr. Peters,” said the Englishman, “may I trouble you to give the signal by saying ‘Ready.’”
“Ready!” shouted the old man eagerly.
Ben began to move his arms in a flail-like way common to those who are untrained in the art of fighting, and advanced with the utmost confidence to the fray. If he had hit straight out his blows would have gone above the head of his antagonist, which was rather a disadvantage, though not so great perhaps as that under which Noel Brooke labored in being so short. It seemed to Ben, therefore, that he had better throw his long arms around his puny opponent, and, fairly lifting him off the ground, hold him helpless at his mercy.
“I won’t hurt him!” thought Ben magnanimously.
But somehow his plan miscarried. Noel Brooke skilfully evaded the close embrace which would have settled the fight then and there in favor of Ben, and skipping, first to one side, then to the other, rained in a shower of blows upon Ben, one of which took effect in his jaw, and drove him staggering back discomfited.
It may safely be said that never were three men more amazed than Mr. Peters and his two sons.