"Now, I observed the quarrel and I suppose you 'ave got to fight un out, but 'ee must follow the regular Cornish rules. Thee, Ande, get thy second, and thee, Bob, get thine, wost tha, and I'll be timekeeper and referee." Glaze led the way over the hedge and the crowd of lads followed, leaping the barrier like a flock of sheep. A circle was formed in true British style. Bob chose one of his satellites, and Ande chose Puckinharn to act as second. The crowd looked on with intense interest. Was not this to be the greatest fight they had ever seen? Who had ever dared to challenge redoubtable Bob before? And to make it additionally interesting, Tom Glaze, one of the most expert wrestlers and boxers of the Duchy, was to be the one in charge. It was of as much moment to them as the battle of Waterloo to their fathers. The coats of the contestants were cast aside and their sleeves were deftly rolled up by the seconds. "One, two, three," counted Glaze, and then the battle began. With a roar, Bully Bob rushed as if to break every bone in his antagonist's body, and truly had the blow fallen the battle would have been a short one, for in age, height and weight Bob had the advantage. Now did Ande feel grateful for the training in the furze croft. Heretofore, it was stand up, take and give, but now, to Bob's intense amazement and disgust, his blow landed on empty air, and as he swept by, carried by his momentum, he received a fierce jab in the ribs that added nothing to his good humour. Observing, after one or two encounters like this, that he had no ordinary battle to fight, he began to be more cautious and his usual confident, sneering face assumed a doubtful air, but he still pressed the conflict. With his sledge-hammer fists he shot out blows that would have felled a much larger opponent, but they were either parried or fell on air. With the litheness and agility of a leopard his opponent was here, there, everywhere, side-stepping and putting in heavy body blows that made Bob gasp with something more than astonishment. But Ande was growing too confident. Pushing his antagonist in turn, he sought to reach Bob's freckled countenance, fell short, and, to use his own expression, "received a skevern on the noase and eyes that made un see fire." A yell went up from Bob's satellites. Bob had drawn first blood, and he now pressed the dazed Ande, showering on him a number of blows that he with difficulty avoided. The mute silence of the crowd was broken by Bob's success. Whooping, yelling, they urged Bob on. "Give it to the hugly Deane! Knack down the traitor! Hooray! Braavo-o-o!" Only Puckinharn shouted encouragement to his principal. "'It un in the ribs, Ande! Thee cussent reach 'is faace. Braavo! Braavo, now he's gurking."[4] [4] Gurking--weakening.