MAN TO MAN
It was a scene to be printed indelibly on the memory: The palpitant,
swaying crowd, those in front pushed forward by those behind; the
baseball players round the edges of the cleared space, bracing to
hold the mob back almost by main strength; human beings climbing on
other human beings to get a momentary glimpse of the fighters; men
and boys jammed in a dense mass on the bleachers, and still more of
them clinging like monkeys to the bending limbs of the tree――and every
face ablaze with the primitive passion of mankind, the savage zest of
battle, the barbarous joy of witnessing a sanguinary struggle between
two of their specie.
But Janet saw only the fighters; not for a moment did her straining
eyes waver or wander. She watched them leap and retreat, meet again,
stagger, recover, sway this way and that, all the time turning round
and round to the left or to the right, their arms flashing out, their
battering fists giving forth sounds now sharp, now sodden, as they
smashed on head or body. She saw the head of the brown-haired youth
jerk backward before a blow full on the mouth; and then, as blood
stained his lips, a cry――half snarl, half roar――broke from the crowd.
Hoover had drawn first blood, seeing which, an expression of malicious
joy contorted his repellent face, and he seemed spurred to still
fiercer efforts. He thirsted to leave the stamp of his fists indelibly
recorded on that clean-cut face; to mark the youth for life would be an
exquisite pleasure, lingering long in aftertaste.
Locke, however, continued to keep his head, improving such openings as
he could find or make. A cut lip was of no consequence when he had not
felt the blow much; but he must take care that his antagonist did not
reach his jaw with a swing like that, having a bit more steam behind
it. And he must husband his energy and bide his time, for this was no
fight by rounds, and Hoover had set a pace which flesh and blood could
not keep up protractedly. In time, he must weary and slacken, and Locke
hoped to be ready to make the most of it when this faltering came.
The youth’s left-handed guard bothered Jock somewhat, causing him to
fret and snarl. Twice he pinned Locke up against the crowd, that could
not make room for his free movement; but once Tom got under his arm
and away, and once he met the aggressor with such a sudden storm of
blows that Hoover was checked and driven back. After that both men were
bleeding, the Bully having received a stiff smash on the nose.
The crowd shouted applause and instruction:
“Fine work, Lefty!”
“Keep after him, Jock! Put him out!”
“You’ve got him going! Follow him up!”
“Look out for his left, boy!”
“Soak him another in the same place――that’s the stuff!”
“Well,” said Bent King, in wonderment, “I’ll be hanged if Locke isn’t
holding his own with that terrier!”
Apparently Janet did not hear him. A little color had risen into
her cheeks, and her bosom was heaving against her tightly clenched
hands. She was still fearful of the final result, but he with whom her
throbbing heart sympathized had met his brutal enemy like a man of
courage, and made it a worthy battle. She could hear Hoover breathing
heavily, like one on whom the tremendous strain was beginning to tell
at last, while Locke, although his breast rose and fell rapidly, was,
to all outward seeming, the fresher of the two.
Once a little, choking gasp escaped her, for the youth was sent reeling
by a blow, Jock rushing forward to follow it up. Locke, however, kept
his feet with the agility of a cat, avoiding that rush, and getting in
a body punch that made the other man grunt.
Following this, discovering at last the drain his efforts were putting
upon him, Hoover sought to take it easier, and recuperate. This quickly
became apparent, and a cry arose:
“He’s stalling, Lefty! Go to him! Don’t let him get his wind back!”
Locke had no intention of permitting his antagonist to rest, and now
he took the aggressive, and kept at it with persistence that wore on
Hoover.
Up to this point, Mike Riley had entertained no doubt as to what the
end must be, but now uncertainty seized him, followed by alarm as he
beheld tokens which seemed to denote that Hoover was becoming a bit
groggy.
The Bancroft manager had no wish to see his puissant slabman whipped,
for that would leave him no longer the terror he had been to opposing
batsmen; and much of his success as a pitcher had doubtless come
through the awe which he had inspired.
“Hey!” croaked Riley suddenly. “I guess this here’s gone ’bout fur
enough.”
But, with his first movement to interfere, he was seized by more than
one pair of hands, jerked back, and held.
“Guess again!” cried Larry Stark. “Hoover forced it on the boy, and now
he’ll have to take his medicine.”
“That’s right! That’s right!” shouted half a hundred voices.
“You bet it’s right!” roared a big millman in the crowd. “If this
Bancroft bunch tries to meddle now in a square fight, they’ll have the
whole o’ Kingsbridge on top of ’em.”
Possibly a free-for-all fight might have broken out at this point, but
suddenly Tom Locke’s fist fell on Hoover’s jaw with a crack like a
pistol report, and the Bancroft pitcher’s legs seemed to melt beneath
him.
Prone upon the trampled ground he sank in a huddled heap, while Locke,
lowering his hands at his sides, stepped back and stood looking down at
him. A hush came over the crowd. The fallen man made a blind, feeble
effort to lift himself, turned his body partly, then slumped back, his
face in the turf, and lay still.
“He’s put Jock out!” said some one in an awed and marveling voice.
With a yell, Larry Stark leaped forward and seized the victor’s hand.
That yell was echoed by the mob.
“Lefty did it!”
“Oh, you, Lefty! Oh, you, Lefty!”
Locke’s face was sober and unsmiling, betraying no elation. Satisfied
that it was really over, he lifted his eyes, and found himself
unexpectedly gazing into the wide blue eyes of a girl who was looking
down at him from a carriage round which the crowd was wedged. For a
moment they stared at each other, while the cheering continued, and
slowly a flush of shame mounted into Tom Locke’s cheeks. He turned away.
“Come, Bent,” said Janet in a husky voice, “can’t we get out of here
now? I’m really faint. Please hurry.”