And so the rounds went on until the seventh, when Bob being unwary, Ande seized his left guard, gave his ankle a queer, Cornish side kick, and sent in a blow on Bob's jaw that toppled the redoubtable bully over on his back. "Hooray! Braavo!" exclaimed Puckinharn, swinging his cap up in the air in his delight. Bob was up the next instant and began to fight in a cautious, crouching attitude. His ribs, black and blue, he sought to shield by drawing his body back and shoving his head and arms forward. There was a better chance, too, for a wrestle, he thought. The small boys held their breath. This was the attitude Bob always assumed when meeting hard opponents. Rumour had credited him with throwing a sailor in this manner. The bully was at bay and would fight hard. Now, Ande, you have need of all your skill, so hardly earned in the practice bouts with Tom Glaze. There was no further chance at Bob's ribs, and his head seemed perfectly guarded. They circled warily around each other seeking for an opening. Then, like a flash came Ande's chance, the opportunity that he would not let slip. "If 'ee ever get that chance and take it, it will put thy opponent down and hout sure," Glaze had told him time and time again, in their practice bouts. Bob made a slight pass with his left. The next instant his wrist was grasped in an iron grip. Up over his neck Ande raised Bob's arm, then bending his back he grasped with his other hand his opponent's right knee, and putting forth all his strength, Bob went up in the air as if hoisted with a derrick. "A clinch! a clinch!" shouted some, and it was a clinch in which one did all the clinching. Bob struggled manfully, but the grip that had stopped the squire's runaway mare could not be unloosened. Up, up, up, went Bob, and then with a heave the form of the bully, like a comet, went over his opponent's head and over the heads of the close-pressing ring-siders, his foot kicking off the cap of one of the lads in his involuntary flight. There was a thud and a cry. The battle was ended. Bully Bob had a broken collar-bone, and his prestige was forever terminated. Trembath was the hero of the hour. Tom Glaze was jubilant and slapped the victor on the back. "Thee did what I telled thee, and I couldn't do un better myself. Thee'lt be champion of the county yet. Thee make off home now, for thy mother will be looking for 'ee, and I'll see to the tother chap." Ande started homeward. The boys still remained around the fallen bully, or in little knots by themselves discussed the great battle. Then a short distance away were seen the approaching figures of the squire and parson, and the spectators melted away like magic, until only Tom Glaze remained. "Ah, Tom, a bad day's work, inciting the young to fight," said Parson Trant, shaking his head disapprovingly.