He gasped and staggered back against a tree for a second, looking dazed as he wiped a flow of blood from his face.
"For God's sake, man," I shouted, "let us quit this."
He laughed derisively.
"The hell you say! Quit,—nothin'; not till one of us quits for keeps."
He rallied and came at me once more, but with greater wariness than previously. He poked at me and jabbed at me. I warded him off, keeping on the move all the time. He swung sideways on me, but I parried easily; then, with a fierce oath, he caught his club with both hands, raised it high in the air and brought it down with all his sledge-hammer strength.
This time, I was ready for Joe Clark. I was strong. Oh!—I knew just how strong I was, and I gloried in my possession.
I had a firmer grip of my cudgel than before. There was going to be no breaking through as he had done last time; not if George Bremner's right arm was as good as he thought it was.
I met that terrific crash at the place I knew would tell. With the crack of a gun-shot, his club shivered into a dozen splinters against mine, leaving him with nothing but a few inches of wood in his torn hands.
He stood irresolute.
"Will you quit now?" I cried.