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He half turned, flung an arm around the neck of his foe, and clung tightly even while he covered up. Steve's fist hammered at the back of the close-cropped head. The prizefighter swung over, face down, rose to his hands and knees by sheer strength, then reached for his neck grip again. Yeager eluded him, throwing all his weight forward to force his opponent down again. Harrison gave suddenly.
"Fine glad day, ain't it?" Yeager opened gayly. "Great the way friends meet in this little old world." "What are you doing here?" demanded the prizefighter, his chin jutting forward and down. "Me! I'm losing my wad at stud. Want to stake me?" Harrison turned to Pasquale. "Know who he is? Know anything about him, general?" "Only what he has told me, señor." "And that is?"
In much the same way the boy represents in his growth the different stages of civilization from the savage to the civilized man. Some time the average boy typifies the Indian, the cowboy, prizefighter, pirate, sailor, soldier; and all classes of rough, wild men are wonderfully attractive to him. He wishes to be like them and plays at being one of them.
"This is the life," the cowpuncher assured his foe cheerfully after dodging a blow that was like the kick of a mule. Harrison rocked him with a short stiff uppercut. "Glad you like it," he jeered. Yeager crossed with his right, catching him flush on the cheek. "Here's your receipt for the same," he beamed. Like a wild bull the prizefighter was at him again.
To avoid the disgrace of seriously striking her, or of being beaten at an open exchange of blows, I made a feint, and caught her by the waist and threw her, not very neatly, for I fell myself in her grip. They had to pluck her from me by force. 'And you've gone a course of tuition in wrestling, squire? the prizefighter said to me rather savagely.
Uncle Moses, you see, was a fine man in his own way of the prizefighter type; and now, in his old age, worked out a little like Dr. Samuel Johnson. The report, as originally received by the police-officer, was that the child was not killed but still unconscious. A good string of injuries were credited to the poor little man, including a dislocated femur and concussion of the brain.
I had two helps from a splendid pot of broth that hung over a fire in the middle of the tent. Kiomi was my companion's name. She had sisters Adeline and Eveleen, and brothers Osric and William, and she had a cousin a prizefighter.
He seemed to have no regard for anything but his own rapid progress. He was making for the counter with its iron defences. The smile in the Englishman's eyes deepened. His interest rose to a wave of excitement. He felt assured that "things" were about to happen. A hard-faced clerk with the shoulders of a prizefighter, was waiting to receive the hurried approach of his client.
Kenko lay on the table, and the red-headed philosopher who runs the lunchroom spotted him. I have always noticed that "plain men" are vastly curious about books. They seem to suspect that there is some occult power in them, some mystery that they would like to grasp. My friend, who has the bearing of a prizefighter, but the heart of an amiable child, came over and picked up the book.
I beheld the girl actually squaring at me. 'Fight away, I said, to conceal my shame, and imagining I could slip from her hits as easily as the prizefighter did from big William's. I was mistaken. 'Oh! you think I can't defend myself, said Kiomi; and rushed in with one, two, quick as a cat, and cool as a statue. 'Fight, my merry one; she takes punishment, the prizefighter sang out.
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