“I’m not going to fight you,” he sneered. “Why should I?”
“You’ve got to,” said Cal grimly, clenching his hands.
“I like that! Swipe my coin and then want to lick me!”
The next instant he was reeling back toward the grass, for Cal had struck him fair on the face with the palm of his hand. Ned steadied himself and stared.
“That’s different,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to fight with a thief, but I will!”
Ned was Cal’s senior by nine months, but his superiority ended there, for the younger boy was stronger and harder of muscle. Perhaps had they stuck to scientific methods Ned would have won that short engagement, for Cal knew little of boxing. His methods were primitive but effective. He met Ned’s rush as best he might, receiving a blow on his chin that staggered him for an instant, and then sprang past the other’s guard, threw his arms around him and strove to throw him. Ned rained blows against Cal’s head, but they were too short to do much damage. For a moment they swayed there, panting and gasping in the middle of the dusty road, Ned hammering short blows against the back of his adversary’s head and Cal paying no heed to them, intent only on getting Ned at his mercy. At last he managed to get one arm across Ned’s chest and gripped his shoulder. At the same instant he put a knee behind the other and in a twinkling they were flat in the weeds by the roadside, a cloud of dust about them. But Cal was on top, and although Ned struggled and writhed, he held his place. There were no blows struck now. Cal had Ned at his mercy and knew it. And it wasn’t long before Ned realized it too and stopped struggling.
“Go ahead,” he panted. “I’m down. Hit me!”
