He rushed in and managed to reach Ira’s chin, but the blow was half blocked and scarcely jarred the recipient, and Ira landed twice on the body before Goodloe retreated. [More circling then, each watching the other warily], and then a half-hearted rush by Goodloe that failed to beat down Ira’s guard. Half a dozen quick blows were given by each, but the blocking was good and neither got home.
[More circling then, each watching the other warily]
“This is a perfect farce,” declared Goodloe mournfully. “You’re not half fighting, confound you!”
“Neither are you,” replied Ira, laughing.
They drew off by common consent, panting a little, but more from their circling than their sparring, and viewed each other. Goodloe shook his head discouragedly. “You’ll have to do better than you’ve been doing, Rowland,” he complained. “Can’t you hand me one on the face? I can’t do it all, you know.”
“I don’t see that you’ve done any of it yet,” said Ira indignantly. “If you want to fight go ahead and fight. I’m not stopping you.”
“Well, but—hang it, Rowland, I can’t smash a fellow unless he does something to get me worked up! Why don’t you start something?”
“Why don’t you?”
“Why, it isn’t my row!”