The fighting continued, Ande playing his old tactics—hitting in the ribs and getting away. Puckinharn grinned in delight. Round two was up and honours were equally divided. Bob was filled with wrath.
"See 'ere," he said to Tom Glaze, "I want to knaw if that is fair, for 'e to go running and dodging around like that? Us aren't playing fox and hounds. Why doan't 'e stand up and take and give like a man?"
He was reassured by Glaze, and Glaze's word was law.
"Thee didn't think it was unfair to crack to Ande when he was down, did 'ee,—thee great bucca," exclaimed Puckinharn.
A bucca was the highest title of reproach that Puckinharn had in his vocabulary.
"Silence," said Glaze; "the rules are that all dodging is allowed."
"And wrastling, too," said Bob.
"Aye, and wrastling, too," affirmed Glaze with a peculiar smile.
And so the rounds went on until the seventh, when
Bob being unwary, Ande seized his left guard, gave his ankle a queer, Cornish side kick, and sent in a blow on Bob's jaw that toppled the redoubtable bully over on his back.