“Keep the big cuss runnin’ aroun’, lad,” put in the trapper, Sandy, giving Tom a friendly tap on the shoulder. “He’s soft from wild livin’, and in the long run ye’ll have his tongue a hangin’ out.” In the bright moonlight, in the big open space beside the shanty, the two fighters squared off. Tom, slim and straight, but sinewy, was outweighed by at least thirty pounds. Pat Fagan’s sloping shoulders and hairy chest and long arms gave him an ominous, bear-like appearance. The onlookers knew right off what kind of a fight each contestant would try to make it. Fagan would be for rushing in close, grabbing, wrestling, hugging; mauling Tom after he had him on the ground. Tom’s tactics would be to keep off the burly soldier by quick footwork, sidestepping, dancing away, darting in cunningly with sharp, swift jabs; blows that would sting big Pat, tantalize him, make him mad, keep him charging in like a wild bull, until his wind was gone. Then would come Tom’s big chance, smashing straight in with hard punches that carried the whole weight of his body behind them. The watching crowd stood in a wide circle, bodies tense, fists clenched, heads poked forward, eying every move of big Pat and Tom, as they warily circled and edged in. Ben Gordon’s heart was pumping fiercely. Would Tom be able to fight his kind of fight? Or would the ponderous Pat succeed in overpowering him with his sheer, brute strength? If Pat could do it, then it would be a speedy fracas, and soon over with. If Tom, then it would probably drag along for half an hour. Ben’s pulses beat savagely when Fagan suddenly lunged. As Pat rushed forward, he worked his brawny arms like a windmill. His wide swings, though clumsy, were heavy and they drove Tom back. One of them caught the lad a glancing blow on the cheek, leaving a red, raw streak. But Tom was the better boxer. While he was forced to yield ground, his fists, at the same time, were working straight and true, like pistons. One hefty punch cut Pat’s lip and made the blood run. Pat fumed; then dove forward again, attempting to encircle Tom’s waist with his gorilla-like arms. “Watch out, Tom!” screamed Ben, torn with alarm. But the agile Tom was smart enough to escape the trap. Quick as a rabbit he whirled sidewise, at the same time plunging his elbow hard into Pat’s stomach. Then he dodged low, underneath Pat’s hairy arms, and threw himself to one side, out of danger. In a trice he was up, alertly facing his opponent again. Fagan stood stock-still, glowering sullenly at his nimble adversary. He panted heavily for a few seconds, then charged once more. This time he got a partial clutch on Tom’s arm, and yanked him toward him. The boy wrenched loose, but the same time unluckily lost his balance and went sprawling backwards. “Pat’s got him now!” gloated the wizened Pete; and Ben gave another yell of alarm, as he saw his brother go down, flat as a pancake.