In his excitement Chub did not throw accurately. The stone missed Perry by a foot and struck Clipperton a grazing blow on the side of the head. Clipperton staggered back, a trickle of blood rilling over his cheek, and whirled with a fierce cry.
Matt, notwithstanding the fact that Perry and Spangler claimed most of his attention, had witnessed Chub's disastrous work with the missile. Just as Clipperton whirled, Matt leaped backward and threw up his hand. This move, coming at that precious instant, gave Clipperton the impression that it was Matt who had hurled the stone.
In everything that Clipperton did he was lightning-quick. The blow had aroused all the passion that lay at the depths of his nature. With the face of a demon, and with a swiftness that was wonderful, he launched himself forward as though hurled by a catapault. The impact of his body knocked Perry out of his way, and in a twinkling he and Matt were engaged, hammer and tongs.
On occasion Matt could be every whit as sudden in his movements as was Clipperton. Just now his quarrel was not with Clipperton, and he hated the twist fate had given the course of events. Nevertheless Clipperton, his half-tamed nature fully aroused, demanded rough handling if Matt was to save himself.
Perry, perhaps not averse to having the fight taken off his hands, ordered his team-mates to keep back. In a group the five runners watched the progress of the battle. It was the first time any of them had ever seen Clipperton cast aside all restraint and display such murderous energy.
The quarter-blood was about Matt's own age, and his perfectly molded body and limbs were endued with tremendous power. But he had more power than prowess, and his fiery energy lacked the cool-headed calculation which alone could make it effective.
On the other hand, Matt King had science as well as strength, and energy as well as self-possession. No matter what the pinch he was in, he could think calmly, and with a swiftness and precision which alone would have won many a battle.
Chub knew that Matt had no love for a brawl; but Chub also knew that Matt tried always to play square with himself, and that if brawls came there was no dodging or side-stepping, but straight business right from the word "go." There was straight business now, and in many points it was brilliant.
Again and again Clipperton, his eyes like coals, his straight black hair tumbled over his forehead, and his face smeared with the red from his wound, hurled himself at Matt only to be beaten back. The one feature of the set-to that stood out beyond all others was this, that Matt was merely on the defensive. The fury of his opponent offered opening after opening of which Matt could have taken advantage; yet, strangely enough to Perry and his followers, Matt held his hand. Watching Clipperton constantly with keen, unwavering eyes, he countered every blow and beat off every attack.
Baffled at every point, Clipperton at last grew desperate. Rushing in he tried to "clinch," and Matt, while seeming to meet him on this ground, suddenly caught him about the middle and flung him over the steep bank into the canal.