“Come, Abe, there’s your chance,” said the old man, addressing his eldest son. “Just stand up to the Britisher, and let him see that he can’t lick the whole Peters family.”
“All right, dad!” said Abe, rising and standing up a full inch taller than his younger brother. “The stranger’s a good fighter, but I reckon he can’t down me.”
He was tall, muscular, and with no superfluous flesh. It looked to Gerald as if his friend would find it a hard job to vanquish this backwoods giant.
“Wal, stranger, how do you feel about it?” asked Abe, as he saw Brooke apparently taking stock of his thews and sinews.
“I don’t know,” answered the tourist. “I had a hard job with your brother, but I think I’ll find it harder to tackle you.”
“Ho, ho! I think so too. Wal, dad, give the signal.”
Ben and his father seated themselves as spectators of the coming encounter. It may seem strange, but Ben’s good wishes were in favor of the stranger. He had been defeated, and if Abe were victorious he knew that he would never hear the last of it. But if Abe, too, were worsted he would have a very good excuse for his own failure. The father, however, felt eager to have the presumptuous Briton bite the dust under the triumphant blows of his eldest son.
Abe was not as impetuous or reckless as Ben. Indeed, had he been so naturally, Ben’s defeat would have made him careful.
He approached cautiously, and at the proper time he tried to overwhelm Brooke with what he called a “sockdolager.” But Noel Brooke had a quick eye, and drawing back evaded the onslaught which fell on the empty air. Before Abe could recover from the recoil the tourist dealt him a heavy blow beneath his left ear which nearly staggered him.