"Sure—s-a-n-d, sand. I'm game as a hornet myself, and I reckon I can lay holt of you and wind you up like an eight-day clock. Say, try me a whirl, catch-as-catch-can. If I can't put you on your back in a brace of shakes, I'll eat my spurs. Dare you!"
The stranger backed off, and pushed up his sleeves. A wide grin crossed his face and his black eyes twinkled.
"What have you got against me?" asked Matt. "Why do you want to fight?"
"Shucks! You got to have a reason for every blamed thing? Come at me. Dare you—dare you! I'm hungry to caper—and you ain't going to hold back on a feller when he's hungry, are you?"
Matt laughed.
"Well, no," he answered, getting up.
Then, without any ifs, ands, or whyfors, the king of the motor boys and the stranger rushed together.
It was the "double grapevine" that did the business for the stranger. In ten seconds, by the watch, he went into the air and dropped down on the soft sand with a chug that left him dazed and bewildered. Then he sat up and stared.
"Well, well, well!" he sputtered. He was still grinning, and his black eyes traveled over Matt with wonder and admiration. "You the Tur'ble Turk in disguise?" he inquired.
"Hardly," laughed Matt. "You must have learned wrestling in an Agricultural School."