Tom was puzzled by this invitation, and was also half mollified.
“Why, Clem, I’d like to—darned if I wouldn’t! But we got a big kelly game comin’ off to-night—dollar a corner——”
“And your dad’s house rent is owing,” said Clem quietly. “Will you come or not?”
“Don’t see how I can——”
Like a flash, Clem’s right shot out. It drove fair and square to the big fellow’s jaw. Tom went staggering back, and his friends surged forward at Clem with a snarl of rage. Gripping the pool table behind him, Tom Saunders turned on them hotly.
“Git back, you flatfoots! Keep out o’ this!”
“Bully for you, Tom!” said Clem approvingly. Then, as Tom turned, Clem was in, with a leap, and the row began.
And, as a water-front row, it was historic. Tom Saunders was no bluffer. He had size and brawn, he took punishment like a punching bag, and he had a kick like a mule. When he started in to fight he usually demolished everything in sight.
But from the start it was evident that he had no chance.
Clem Frobisher in action was a whirlwind. If he lacked size, he had a savage earnestness which won half his battles. He went into a scrap heart and soul and body, for, if he had to fight, he wanted no halfway measures. He was not a halfway man.