“Ladies present, ‘Squatty,’” he said quietly. The quiet tone was like oil to flame with “Squatty.”
“Huh!” said Molly. “He don’t make no difference for them!”
“I’ll show you!” said “Squatty,” striding up to Paul and throwing his full weight into a swinging drive with his right at the boy’s head.
Just what happened no one of the company about the bunk house door, much less “Squatty” himself, could explain, but when the slight confusion was past the foreman was discovered to be quite helpless in the boy’s grip and yelling for mercy. What had happened was after all very simple to one who had become a master of all the tricks of Indian wrestling. Paul with his right hand had met the reckless drive of “Squatty’s” mighty right with a grip on the wrist, had swung the body half round, twisted the arm up behind the back and with his left wreathed in the back of “Squatty’s” coat collar now held him powerless and in agony.
“Let go, for God’s sake, kid,” groaned “Squatty.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, ‘Squatty,’” said Paul pleasantly, “but you mustn’t do things like that, eh?”
“No, no, cut it out. I was just fooling,” said “Squatty.”
“So was I,” said Paul, letting his man loose. “And I’ll get your horse for you if you’re tired.”
If ever there was a puzzled man it was “Squatty.” His astonishment completely neutralised his rage. His eye ran up and down over the slight, boyish figure. He still felt that steel-like grip that had held him helpless.
“Say, kid, we’ll call it a game,” he said, offering his hand. “You don’t need to get no horse for me.”