“Good boy, Bob!” Jack shouted, jumping about in his excitement.
“Heap some boy,” Kernertok grunted.
“I’ll say he is,” Rex agreed.
The breed, angered anew at the failure of his attempt, got more slowly to his feet, and for a moment stood scowling at Bob. He was breathing hard, and it was evident to the boy that he was not in the best of physical condition. The easy life of the summer had softened his muscles, and twenty or more pounds of surplus fat had shortened his wind.
“Me geet you this time,” he shouted, as he started toward him.
Evidently realizing that he was not in Bob’s class when it came to boxing, he had decided to change his tactics and made a lunge at him with outstretched arms. Bob had little difficulty in eluding the grasp, and succeeded in placing a stiff punch on his nose. The breed started back with a grunt of pain and surprise, as the red blood gushed from his nostrils.
“First blood for Bob!” Jack shouted.
“Me keel you for dat,” the man shouted, now maddened beyond control.
“Look out for his foot!” Jack shouted.
But Bob was on the watch for just that move, and as the breed kicked, he stepped back and caught the foot as it was at its highest point. The man fell on his back, the wind knocked entirely out of his body.