“I’d rather have short legs than short brain.”
“I like you so well I smash you in the face!”
Suiting the action to the word Luigi advanced upon Bill, who turned and swung his crutch menacingly.
What then would have occurred it is impossible to surmise, for the crippled boy was handy with the familiar implement that so readily could be used as a weapon, though the Italian was sturdier, heavier and much older—in fact, although small, he was almost a man.
But just at the moment there was a quick, descending footfall on the stair and the door opened. Gus, with wide eyes, stared at the near and unequal combatants.
“Hold on!” said the big fellow, glaring. The Italian hesitated, though but for a moment. “You wouldn’t really hit a fellow who is lame, would you?”
“Ah, get away! Go off!” snarled Malatesta, attempting to thrust Gus aside as the strapping youth stepped in front of him. But the thrust was futile and then Luigi, growing furious, struck at Gus a powerful blow. The fellow was muscular and quick, but there was no thought behind the blow. And there was in contrast a smile on the face of the easy, athletic American.
The Italian’s fist was clutched by a ready hand, much as a baseball would have been caught, and then a very differently directed fist shot out and came in contact with Luigi’s upper stomach—he got that generally final solar plexus blow. Luigi gave a soft, aching grunt and sank to his knees, then to his elbows and rolled over on his side, in a half-minute more sitting up and gazing around, but still in pain. He was again alone.