In all his life Arthur had never before found it necessary to fight, though he had certainly received provocation enough from his Cousin Dick to do so more than once. His own father had taught him to hate fighting and to avoid it if possible, as he would anything else that was ungentlemanly and wrong. At the same time Mr. Dustin had been too wise a man not to know that occasions may arise in everybody’s life when it becomes absolutely necessary to fight. He believed, for instance, that it is right and proper to do so in defence of the weak and helpless who have claims upon us for protection, provided that is the only way of defending them, and this principle he had thoroughly instilled into his child’s mind.
Mr. Dustin also believed that every boy should be taught to use the weapons with which nature has provided him—namely, his fists—for the protection of himself and others, just as he should be taught to read and write or do a thousand other things necessary to his success and happiness in life.
Thus believing, and having been himself one of the best boxers in his college gymnasium, he had begun to instruct his little son in the art of self-defence on the very day that the boy’s mother began to teach him his letters. Now, therefore, although Arthur had never fought a battle with any other boy, he had a very fair knowledge of what he ought to do under the circumstances, and of how to do it.
All his father’s talks upon the subject flashed into his mind, and he seemed to remember every word of them. He could almost hear the dear voice say: “Never fight if you can help it, but if the time comes that you feel it to be your duty, then pitch in with all your heart, with all your strength, and with all your skill. Then fight just as long as you can stand, or until you have won a victory.”
In the present instance, surrounded as he was by fierce-looking, hard-hearted men, who acknowledged no law but that of brute force, and with poor little Rusty crouching at his feet, so certain was the boy of his duty, that he prepared for the coming struggle with a brave heart, though with a very white face.
The boy called “Kid” was perfectly willing to fight; in fact, there was nothing he enjoyed more, especially when, as in this case, he saw the prospect of an easy victory before him. So, as he stood up in front of Arthur, the firelight disclosed a broad grin on his dirty face. He looked so much stronger and heavier than his antagonist, that some of the men were touched with pity for the little fellow, and murmured that it wasn’t a square deal.
“That’s all right,” said the big tramp, who had taken charge of the affair. “The young chap’s got sand or else he wouldn’t be here. He’s been talking pretty big too, and now he’s got the chance to show whether he can back up his words or not.”
To the amazement of the spectators the battle was a long and a hard one; for the new-comer’s pluck and skill were evenly matched against the other’s weight and a dogged pride that forbade him to yield to one younger and smaller than himself. Still, he was in the wrong, and he knew it; while Arthur was in the right, and knew that he was. The boy who was fighting in defence of the weak and the helpless never once thought of giving in, and so the other had to. They finally went to the ground together, with Arthur on top, and this ended the struggle. The “Kid” began to cry: “Lemme up! lemme up! I don’t want to fight no more wid a perfessional. Lemme up!”
Then Arthur left him, and walked to where poor little Rusty was crouching, with his rope held by one of the tramps. Taking the rope in his hand, and lifting his brave, flushed face, blood-stained from a slight cut on his forehead, to that of the big tramp who had ordered the pup to be beaten, the boy asked: “Is he my dog now?”
“Of course he is, sonny; of course he is!” answered the big man, promptly. “You’ve fought the bulliest kind of a fight for him, and I’d like to see the man as would try to take him from you.”