“Sure! We’ll see!” As he spoke, Hugh struggled free from the other’s hold, and met the reprisal with his usual jolly laugh. “Good for you, Billy! Good one on me! O-ho!”—he dodged nimbly a “half-Nelson” which Billy had vainly attempted—“none of your famous strangle-holds, now!”
Then ensued a rough-and-tumble match, the outcome of which was awaited in joyous suspense by every scout in the cabin. They all gathered in a wide circle around the wrestlers, showering liberal encouragement. Had the match been between Hugh or Billy and a member of the other patrol, however friendly, it might not have been greeted with the same impartiality.
The circle soon narrowed, for not more than three minutes elapsed before both contestants were down on their sides, facing each other. Hugh, being quicker and less stockily built than his chum, was the first to make a final overthrow. In a trice, he pulled Billy under him; and, though Billy put up a good fight, he crumpled flat under Hugh’s weight.
“You win!” he gasped. “Get off my arm,—it hurts!”
“Sorry, son,” said Hugh, when murmurs of applause had died away. “Shall I put you back to bed now?”
“No, thank you; I——”
Laughter greeted Hugh’s query, for Billy Worth bore an undeserved reputation of being a sluggard. On his part, he took the laugh good-humoredly.
“Is that what you call doing a daily good turn?” he inquired of Hardin, with a grin. “You’ve begun the day nicely, I must say!”
“You did the good turn, old scout!” called Walter Osborne, of the Hawk patrol, from across the room. “I never saw a neater tumble!”
“I’ll take a fall out of you for that, Walt!” threatened Billy, cheerfully. “If we have archery practice to-day, you’ll miss a feather from your wing!”