Both men were in the pink of condition, and for a long time neither seemed to gain any advantage over the other.
They swayed backward and forward, exchanging terrific blows that echoed on their chests like the beating of a drum. No sound was heard save their labored breathing and an occasional encouraging cry from one of the men. It seemed as though no man could live through such punishment, and finally both were forced to rest through sheer lack of wind.
Then they fell to again, and this time employed all the rough-house tactics that they knew. Lavine suddenly brought his spiked shoe down on the Irishman’s foot with all the force at his command, and the latter gave a bellow of pain and rage. He retaliated by lowering his head and butting it into the pit of Lavine’s stomach. The Frenchman gave a gasp and reeled for a moment, but quickly recovered and returned to the attack with tiger-like ferocity.
There is no telling how the fight would have ended, for here there was a diversion. Flannigan, the foreman, had returned to the camp after his trip to town, and with one quick glance realized what was going on.
With a yell he charged the group of men, who made a path for him with rather sheepish looks on their faces. He grabbed one by each shoulder and threw them apart.
“Pfwat the Dickens do ye mean by this, ye shpalpeens?” he shouted, angrily. “Didn’t Oi say that Oi’d have no fighting in my camp? If yez want to scrap, go and do it in some other camp. Yez can’t do it here! Ye’re fired, both of yez! Pick up yer duds and vamoose! Beat it now, before Oi lick the two of yez! Get!”
The two men were entirely taken back by this, for, as is usual with men of their type, they had an exaggerated idea of their own importance and had not believed that Flannigan would really discharge them. When they realized that such was actually the case, however, their first astonishment changed to rage and resentment. Their common plight caused them to forget their recent quarrel and they were drawn together by their natural grudge against Flannigan. They regarded him with black scowls and then entered the bunk house to get their things.
“Who’d have thought the old cuss would take it that way?” growled O’Brien.
“He’ll live long enough to regret it, by gar,” snapped Lavine, grinding his teeth, “but not much longer. No man can fire me, Jacques Lavine, in dat way and live to boast about it. No, sar!”
“We’ll get hunk on him, all right,” muttered “Red.” “We’ll show him that he can’t get away with anythin’ like that! Yes, by thunder, we will!”