Clayton was standing quite still, his broad chest heaving, his eyes glittering, and his face still pale; he had his hands up, ready for defense.
When Molloy came again, his blow missed, and so did Clayton’s; and then they locked in a fierce grapple, each striving to throw the other.
The men stood about, clapping their hands and urging on the fighting. This was to them as good as a circus.
“Slug him, Molloy!”
“Stand up to him, Pool!”
“Hook him under the jaw!”
“Cave in his face!”
Such were the commands shouted, as the men hopped about in their excitement.
The combatants came to the ground together, Clayton underneath. Molloy had his arms around Clayton, and now tried to push his head against the ground, and at the same time batter him in the face.
In the opinion of the watching men, Pool Clayton was as good as whipped, but with a mighty effort he twisted round, half rising; and then, catching Molloy about the waist and shoulders, he lifted the young bully and threw him through the air.