Part 5 (1/2)

Head down, jump in--head down, jump in. Why you run so queek on dat Mop feller? Why you not make him run after you?”

”He's right, Larry,” said Ben. ”Use your feet; make him come after you.

You will sure get his wind.”

But Larry stood recovering his breath, glowering meanwhile at his enemy across the ring. He neither heeded nor heard the entreaties of his friends. In his ears one phrase only rang with insistent reiteration.

”He's a coward, an' his mother's a coward before him.” Only one obsession possessed him, he must keep hard at his enemy.

”Time!” The second round was on. Like a tiger upon his prey, Larry was upon his foe, driving fast and furious blows upon his head and face. But this time Mop was ready for him, and bearing in, head down, he took on his left guard the driving blows with no apparent injury, and sent back some half a dozen heavy swings that broke down Larry's guard, drove him across the ring and finally brought him gasping to his knees.

”Stay where you are,” yelled Ben. ”Take your count, Larry, and keep away from him. Do you hear me? Keep away, always away.”

At the ninth count Larry sprang to his feet, easily eluded Mop's swinging blow, and slipping lightly around the ring, escaped further attack until he had picked up his wind.

”That's the game,” yelled Ben. ”Keep it up, old boy, keep it up.”

”C'est bon stuff, Larree,” yelled Joe, dancing wildly in Ben's corner.

”C'est bon stuff, Larree, for sure.”

But once more master of his wind, Larry renewed his battering a.s.sault upon Mop's head, inflicting some damage indeed, but receiving heavy punishment in return. The close of the round found him exhausted and bleeding. In spite of the adjurations and entreaties of his friends, Larry pursued the same tactics in the third round, which ended even more disastrously than the second. His condition was serious enough to bring Mack Morrison to his side.

”What's up with you, Larry?” said Mack. ”Where's your science gone? Why don't you play the game as you know it?”

”Mack, Mack,” panted Larry. ”It ain't a game. I'm--I'm fighting, and, Mack, I'm not afraid of him.”

Mack whistled. ”Who said you are afraid of him, youngster?”

”He did, Mack, he called me a coward--you remember, Ben, up in the cedar bush that day we played hookey--you remember, Ben?” Ben nodded. ”He called me a coward and”--grinding the words between his teeth--”he called my mother a coward. But I am not afraid of him, Mack--he can't make me afraid; he can't make me run away.” What with his rage and his secret fear, the boy had quite lost control of himself.

”So that's it,” said Mack, reading both rage and fear in his eyes.

”Listen to me, Larry,” he continued in a voice low and stern. ”You quit this monkey work right now or, by the jumping Jehoshaphat, I will lick the tar out of you myself when this is over. You're not afraid of him; I know that--we all know that. But you don't want to kill him, eh? No.

What you want is to make him look like a fool. Well, then, fight, if you want to fight, but remember your rules. Play with him, make him follow you round until you get his wind; there's your chance. Then get him hard and get away.”

But the boy spoke no word in reply. He was staring gloomily, desperately, before him into s.p.a.ce.

Mack seized him, and shaking him impatiently, said, ”Larry boy, listen to me. Don't you care for anybody but yourself? Don't you care for me at all?”

At that Larry appeared to wake up as from a sleep.

”What did you say, Mack?” he answered. ”Of course I care, you know that, Mack.”

”Then,” said Mack, ”for G.o.d's sake, get a smile on your face. Smile, confound you, smile.”

The boy pa.s.sed his gloved hand over his face, looked for a moment into Mack's eyes, and the old smile came back to his lips.

”Now you're all right,” cried Mack in triumph. ”Remember your father's rule, 'Keep your head with your heels.'” And Larry did remember! For on the call of ”Time” he slipped from Ben's knees and began to circle lightly about Mop, smiling upon him and waiting his chance. His chance soon came, for Mop, thinking that his enemy had had about enough and was ready to quit, adopted aggressive tactics, and, feinting with his right, swung heavily with his left at the smiling face. But the face proved elusive, and upon Mop's undefended head a series of blows dealt with savage fury took all the heart out of him. So he cried to the referee as he ducked into his corner:

”He's fightin'. He's fightin'. I'm not fightin'.”