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All this was true of himself, too. But somewhere in him was that dynamic will not to be beaten that counted heavily as a reserve. The prizefighter called on himself for the last attack. He stumbled forward, head down, in a charge. An aimless blow flung Steve against the trunk of the live-oak. His arms thrashing wildly, Harrison plunged forward to finish him.
The prizefighter took another turn up and down the room. He was anxious and harassed as well as driven hard by hatred and jealousy. "The wolf is having me watched. His orders are that I'm not to be allowed to leave camp. I don't get any chance to see him alone. If you ask me, I think he's fixing to have me knifed in the dark," Harrison burst out.
"What are you," he demanded, grinning, "a prizefighter?" "No," said Jack, with a laugh, "but I guess I have had better training than you." "Well," said the Frenchman, "if you ever need anybody to help you out, you can count on me. Maybe some day you will bump up against someone who can best you, but I believe the two of us together can put him down."
He won't box for points, but he will try to soak you. Look out for him." "I am not afraid of him." "That's all right; but you know he has been practicing that blow, and they say it is terrible. He is cut out for a prizefighter, and is no fit boxing antagonist for a gentleman." "I shall look out for his 'wicked left, as I have heard the boys call it."
There was red in his cheeks, and his lips were full and scarlet. His hand and arm were those of a prizefighter. He came in smiling, bringing with him such an odour of strong waters and pipe tobacco that, between laughing and coughing, I thought the old fellow would have choked.
It would have to be quick work, with young Ikey despatched by the screaming women at Ragstroar's to call in help; either his father's from the nearest pot-house, or any police-officer, whichever came first. Quick work it was! A gasp or two, and the man's natural flinching before the great prizefighter and his terrible reputation had to yield to the counsels of despair. It had to be done, somehow.
Who would debase himself to be merely brave, like any common prizefighter? Who would stoop to be fearless like a tree? Fight the thing that you fear.
You're across the line and among friends. No use keeping up the bluff. I know who held me up. If I'm not hos-tile about it, you don't need to be." The prizefighter flung at him the word of insult that no man in the fighting West brooks. Before Steve could speak or move, Pasquale hammered the table with his heavy, hairy fist. "Maldito!" he roared.
But what in Zen" his voice went dangerous "was the idea of sticking that punch-drunk prizefighter on me in the most respectable nightclub in Greater Washington?" Freddy grinned ruefully. "Oh, you figured that out, eh?" "Did you think I was stupid?" Freddy rubbed his hands together, happily. "He used to be world champion, and you flattened him.
The prizefighter had adopted drinking for his pursuit; one of her aunts was dead, and she was in quest of money to bury the dead woman with the conventional ceremonies and shows of respect dear to the hearts of gipsies, whose sense of propriety and adherence to customs are a sentiment indulged by them to a degree unknown to the stabled classes.
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