“I’m afeared this army life is gittin’ you down, Pete,” chided Bill. “Guess what, Pete,” broke in Tom Gordon, who had sauntered up. “Now what, younker? Be the dad-busted war over?” “Hardly think so. But I want to tell you that there’s a fresh bunch of volunteers in from Shawneetown, way down on the Ohio River.” “Fierce bunch, them Shawneetown boys,” opined Pete, shaking his head grimly. “Claim ter be half man an’ half alligator.” “Well, they’ve got a chap named Mike Mitchell who they say is the rip-roaringest wrestler to ever tread the prairies.” “Oh, they says so, do they?” snorted old Pete, his eyes shooting fire. “Mus’ be they ain’t never heared tell o’ Sangamon’s Abe Lincoln.” “Yes, they have, Pete. That’s just it. They’re sayin’ that this man Mitchell can throw Abe half-way across Rock River.” “Humph!” growled the frontiersman, “that I gotta see.” “Reckon Mitchell’s bitin’ off more’n he kin chaw, Pete?” asked Bill Brown. “Yep, big Abe ’ll do him up in three shakes of a sheep’s tail. Wall, I’d better toddle along an’ hit the hay. If thar’s anthin’ in the wide world that Pete Perkins hates, it’s gittin’ out o’ bed in the mornin’. An’ some folks say he ain’t wuth much arter he’s out, anyhow.” The next morning, several of the Shawneetown volunteers circulated among the Sangamon County militia, offering bets that Lincoln couldn’t throw their man, Mitchell. “We’ve sized up this long-geared Abe feller,” they scoffed, “an’ he jest ain’t got the gimp. Big Mike ’ll bust him smack in two.” The Sangamon boys promptly got their dander up, and the wagers ran high, from money to jackknives. Pete Perkins bet everything he had, except his shirt and pants. The match was set for afternoon at the river bank by the ferry. There had been a lot of talk. Interest was at a fever pitch, so quite a crowd collected to see how the encounter would turn out. The Shawneetown entry, Mike Mitchell, was short and stocky in build, with a thick chest and the muscle haunches of a wild steer. His aim from the first was to get in close with Abe, where he would have the advantage of his brute strength. But canny, cool-headed Abe was on to his game. He held off Mitchell’s clumsy rushes with his sinewy, pole-like arms. Gradually he wore down his strength, got him puffing and wheezing and out of temper. Mitchell then fouled Abe by stamping on his right foot and instep with his sharp boot heel. At this low trick, the usually placid Lincoln suddenly flew off the handle. He leaped forward, lifted his opponent up by the throat and completely off the ground. Then he shook him like a rag, and, after a moment, slammed him to a hard fall flat on his back. As Mitchell lay on the ground, the proud boasts of his followers dragging in the dust with him, some of the Shawneetown gang, who were a hard set, started to run at Lincoln with hot threats on their lips. Big Abe leaped nimbly to one side, and put his back up against a broad-trunked tree.