And a "frost" it most likely would have been, with a bored-stiff schoolboy on one side, and a Puffing Billy of a horseman on the other, had not Mr. Mawdster, dressed in his Sunday best, and obviously "out for the afternoon", taken advantage of a parting in the crowd to insinuate himself amongst the foremost spectators. There, with his nose superciliously wrinkled, and a contemptuous smile playing on his thin lips, he formed a conspicuous figure which Dick could not fail to note, even though one of the schoolboy's eyes was rapidly closing under a puff of tender skin.
The scorn of an enemy is the surest form of tonic to a fighter of mettle. The printer, deliberately meaning to be insulting, did Dick an immeasurable kindness. Pride surged up like a red sea in the school captain's veins. The feeling of numbness passed from them—they tingled into leaping life.
"The worm's come here to gloat over me being pole-axed," he decided. "Very well, I'll disappoint him. Juddy Whatshisname, Esquire, can look out for his eye now. I'm going to fight!"
Into the ring he jumped, a new man from head to foot. No more back-pedalling and side-stepping—no more trelliswork-formation of defending arms before an elusive head. Dick sought out his opponent with a refreshing newness of purpose which astonished everyone, more particularly the young horseman, who was called upon to shield himself for the first time, and plainly didn't know how to do it.
Rap, rap went Dick's knuckles between the yokel's wide-set eyes. No damage done, apparently! Dick ducked to avoid the round-armed return blow, and brought his left instantly to Juddy's jaw. "Ugh!" grunted Juddy, but that was all. A weather-beaten head like his could stand a lot of pommelling.
"Like hitting a wooden Highlander outside a snuff-shop," Dick inwardly commented. "Nil desperandum! I'll hurt him yet!"
"Hit him on t'neb, Foxey—hit him on t'neb," came a familiar voice from the crowd—the hoarse voice of Fluffy Jim.
The village idiot was not quite so daft after all! While the fight had been going against his champion he had kept a shut mouth—he was sharp enough to realize the change in the feelings of the crowd, which made it safe at last to venture on an encouraging yell. He knew, too, that his own body would probably be free from violence for a long time to come if Juddy were beaten now. This time he was to be a help, not a hindrance, to the Captain of Foxenby, who really appreciated a heartening cheer at the turn of the tide.
"Bravo, sonny!" cried Chuck Smithies, at the end of the round. "You've sparred him to a standstill. But that isn't enough by a jugful. The shades of night will fall before you knock him down by hammering his dial. I know these farm-hands—bred on beef and bacon pasties—tough as prairie grass. The referee is fidgeting to declare it a draw; if the police pop in and catch him amusing himself like this, they'll haul him before the beak. There's only one way to end it. Just one spot to hit Juddy on——"
"The solar plexus?" queried Dick.