CHAPTER XII.
AN INTERNATIONAL COMBAT.
“Excuse my want of ceremony,” said Noel Brooke nonchalantly. “I would have waited for an introduction but there wasn’t time.”
“Who are you?” gasped Jake Amsden.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the Englishman, raising his hat as ceremoniously as if he were addressing a Chicago millionaire. “I am the Hon. Noel Brooke, of England, at your service.”
“An Englishman? That is worse than all. That Jake Amsden should live to be floored by an Englishman!”
“My friend, I hope that is no disgrace. There are plenty of your countrymen who could floor me.”
“But I can’t understand it,” said Jake, rising with difficulty from his recumbent position. “You don’t weigh within twenty-five pounds of me.”
“It isn’t always weight that counts—it’s science. I learned how to box when I was at Eton.”
“I think I could lick you in a fair fight,” went on Jake, surveying the trim figure of his antagonist, who was at least three inches shorter than himself. “You hit me when I wasn’t lookin’.”