"Not here, gentlemen, I beg," said he. "Do you both want to spend a night in the lock-up? There's the bowling-green behind, nice and handy. If you must fight, come and have it out there!"
This fresh turn of events was still more hateful to Dick, who would have preferred to be done with the unfortunate affair after a quick set-to in the open. But some gratis sport of a thrilling character was exactly what the crowd wanted, and they swept both Dick and the horseman, willy-nilly, on to the snow-covered bowling-green at the rear.
"Now then, gents, you all know me as an old boxer and a clean sportsman," the landlord shouted. "So I'll be referee and see fair play. Juddy here will have plenty of supporters, but who's going to hold the sponge for the representative of Foxenby?"
"I will, old bean," said a man at the back of the crowd, which parted to make way for him. "Give me your coat, youngster. I'll see you through this all right."
And it was with a thankful heart that Dick saw "Chuck" Smithies, his travelling companion of the previous day, elbowing his way towards him. In this hostile crowd he was now assured of at least one friend!
CHAPTER XIV
The Fight on the Bowling-green
There are some boys so serene of temper that they can go through school life without a serious quarrel with anyone. Dick Forge was a boy of this type. He had risen from the First Form at Foxenby to his present responsible position as captain of the school without having had a single pugilistic encounter of any moment. Still, he was too all-round an athlete not to have gained a sound knowledge of boxing, and he was nail-hard physically. It was not the ability but the desire to fight that he lacked.
Now that he had done what he deemed to be his duty in releasing Fluffy Jim from torture, he had no grudge against the big young horseman with whom he found himself matched. He felt listless about the matter—bored by it, though keenly alive to the necessity of keeping that huge red hand as far as possible from his face and body. One fair smack from such a leg-o'-mutton fist might well serve to put him to bed for a week, which would be particularly awkward.
For fully three rounds, therefore, he remained entirely on the defensive, much to the disappointment of the crowd, who saw no merit in his performance of side-stepping and dancing beyond the reach of their champion's writhing arms. To them that indicated cowardice, with which they freely taunted him.