“None of your business!” the other retorted.
“What are you doing here?”
Zorn did not pay the Shark the compliment of appearing to hear him.
“Hagle, I want you,” he said roughly. “Get up!”
Then a curious thing happened—curious, that is, according to the ideas of every boy in the glade. Jack Hagle did not obey his master’s voice.
“Get up!” roared Zorn. “You’re coming with me, and you’re coming on the jump!”
“Hold on there!” Sam interposed. “Hagle is going to do as he pleases.”
Zorn turned on Sam. “You keep out of this, Parker! Don’t you suppose I see through your scheme to break up my crowd? You want to get Jack off by himself, and pump him dry of all he knows and a lot of things he doesn’t know. And that I won’t stand for!... Hagle, you come with me!”
But Jack, still on his knees, merely began to whimper weakly. Zorn strode toward him; found Sam in the way; attempted to thrust him aside. It was a violent push rather than a blow, but it served just as effectively as a challenge.
Sam struck back, and struck hard. The time for the inevitable physical clash with his enemy had arrived, the battle which must be fought out. The blow caught Zorn on the shoulder. He reeled under its force; regained balance; struck, in turn. Sam’s guard saved him, and in another instant the two were at it, in full earnest, fighting rather than boxing, boring in furiously, more intent on inflicting damage than on avoiding it.