THE BULLY MEETS HIS MATCH.
It was a clean knockout blow, delivered with marvelous skill and
swiftness. The strange youth had not waited an instant before avenging
the insult bestowed upon him.
The wipers gasped for breath and showed their excitement, while the
engineers came hurrying toward the scene of the trouble.
“Now there’ll be blazes to pay!” whispered one man, his eyes betraying
his fear.
“Mart’ll kill him!”
“In a minute! Look out for Old Slugs! He’s gettin’ up!”
The dazed and astounded wiper was sitting up. He looked at the youth
in bewilderment. The visitor was calmly removing the tobacco from his
shirt with a dainty white handkerchief.
“Did--did he hit me?” asked the bruiser.
“Yes; I hit you, you scum!” rang out the clear voice of the visitor.
“If you will get up, I’ll take great pleasure in hitting you again!”
One of the machinists got hold of the arm of the youth, and found it
hard as iron. He whispered in the stranger’s ear:
“You’d better get out! That’s Old Slugs, and he’ll kill you! He’s dead
nutty when he’s mad.”
“Thank you,” said the visitor, quietly. “Don’t worry about me. That’ll
be all right.”
“You took him by surprise before. Next time----”
“Next time I shall hit him harder.”
The wiper scrambled to his feet, snarling savagely. He leaped backward
as he got up, in order to be beyond the reach of the fearless youth,
who seemed ready to come at him.
“Now,” he grated--“now I’ll smash ye!”
Then he rushed at the other.
With the grace of a fawn and the agility of a cat, the young man
avoided the rush, and he planted a swinging blow under the ear of the
wiper, sending the latter whirling and staggering away.
But the infuriated man quickly recovered, and came at the stranger once
more. This time he did not make such a fierce rush, but closed in as if
he would prevent the youth from dodging.
The stranger laughed in the face of “Old Slugs,” as the wiper was often
called. It was a peculiar laugh, and it added to the anger of the man.
“Laugh, drat ye!” he snarled. “I’ll make ye laugh outer t’other side of
yer mouth pretty quick!”
“Marvelous!” smiled the youth, as, with uplifted hands, he slipped to
one side and darted under the wiper’s arm like a flash. “You surprise
me, sir!”
Still snarling, Slugs whirled about and let out with his left for
the head of the nimble visitor. The blow was neatly ducked, and the
stranger countered on the wiper’s wind.
A grunting puff came from the lips of Old Slugs, but he managed to
avoid the youth’s straight drive for his jaw. At the same time he
realized that had he not escaped the blow must have been a knockout.
Such pugilistic skill on the part of the boyish-looking visitor was
astounding, but still the wiper felt confident that he would be able to
end the fight with a single blow.
Within a very few seconds he discovered that it was almost impossible
to get in that blow. Only once had he been able to hit the stranger,
and that was a glancing blow that simply seemed to put the youth on his
mettle.
Old Slugs was a bulldog to fight, and, for that reason, the watchers
were confident that he would be the victor in the end. For all that the
stranger rained blow after blow upon the wiper’s face and body, Slugs
continued the fight as if he had not been hit. His face was cut by the
hard knuckles of the visitor, and blood was running, but that made no
difference.
“I should think there was a flea pesterin’ me if I didn’t know,” said
the man, with a sneer.
“How is this for a flea bite?”
The laughing stranger struck Slugs a terrible blow on the chin, hurling
him backward into the arms of one of the spectators.
For a second the ruffian was dazed. He lay limply in the arms of the
man, his eyes rolling, while he feebly lifted one hand to his chin.
Then, with astonishing swiftness, he recovered, uttering a howl of fury
as he leaped out to confront the stranger once more.
Now the wiper made several attempts to close with the visitor, but each
time he was avoided or beaten back with severe punishment. It was plain
that the youth did not intend to let Slugs get hold of him if he could
help it.
“If Slugs ever gets a hand on him, he’ll tear him limb from limb,” said
one of the watching wipers.
“Sure,” nodded the other. “And he’ll get him before long. All that
thumping don’t bother Mart.”
“That one on the chin shook him up for a minute.”
“Notice how quick he recovered?”
“Yes; but the boy didn’t foller up his advantage.”
“He couldn’t ’thout hittin’ Mart when he was in Dave’s arms.”
“This ain’t no prize fight under rules. He’d oughter finished it up
when he had a chance. He won’t get another.”
The spectators were greatly excited. They applauded the stranger as
much as they dared, but were universal in their belief that he must get
the worst of it in the end.
But still the youth smiled and danced about the man, who was beginning
to rush less and fight more slowly. The roundhouse men began to realize
that Slugs’ efforts were telling on him, while the stranger seemed just
as fresh as at the beginning.
“Oh, why don’t ye keep still a minute?” grated the battered wiper, in
disgust.
“All right,” was the cool answer. “I will.”
Then, to the amazement of all, the youth stood quite still, carelessly
dropping his hands at his sides.
Slugs rushed, a cry of satisfaction breaking from his lips as he made a
clutch to gather the other into his grasp, but his arms closed on empty
air, and he felt something catch him about the knees, and he seemed to
spin over and over to strike the ground with an awful thud.
The crafty stranger had ducked close to the ground, caught him low,
about the legs, and thrown him into the air.
It was an amazing feat, and the witnesses could hardly believe the
evidence of their eyes.
Slugs lay still on the ground, breathing heavily and staring straight
up toward the dirty, smoky roof.
There were some moments of silence.
“I believe he’s finished.”
Somebody uttered the words, and they were heard by the fallen man.
“Who says so?” he hissed, sitting up. “They lie--they lie!”
To his feet he sprang, although he staggered in a manner that told he
was giddy. A torrent of fierce language poured from his lips. He looked
scarcely human, with his blood-stained face and tobacco-colored teeth.
Still the stranger did not appear in the least alarmed.
Now, however, the youth took the offensive. It seemed that he decided
that the time had arrived to end the fight, and he went at Slugs like a
whirlwind.
The ruffian tried to withstand the assault, but he was bewildered by it
and his defense was feeble. Backward he was forced. The knuckles of the
stranger played a tattoo on his face, while not one of his blows seemed
to reach.
Smash!
With one swinging hook the youth sent Old Slugs staggering across a
track to drop on his hands and knees.
Up the man leaped, but his opponent followed closely. Another blow sent
the bully of the roundhouse to earth again.
The excitement was intense, for the witnesses saw that the stranger was
determined to end the fight as soon as possible.
Slugs got up, but he was in no condition to carry on the battle, and
he fell again almost instantly. Then the fighting youth stood over him
with clinched fists and flashing eyes, demanding:
“Have you got enough?”
“Yes,” gasped the whipped ruffian; “I give up!”