“I’s de Tickfall Tiger, an’ I kin curry dat Georgia jackass fo’ inches under his hide!” Then the seconds clattered out of the ring with their folding stools, and the two men advanced and took their fighting attitudes. Pap Curtain picked up a baseball bat and struck a large wagon-tire suspended from a tree on the edge of the bayou. This was the gong. [Illustration: Drawn by E. W. Kemble “I’se de braying jack-ass of Georgia, an’ no nigger in Tickfall cain’t comb my mane.”] “Time!” the referee shouted. “Go fer his stomick, Conko!” Skeeter Butts squealed. “Hit an’ duck! It’s de best thing you kin do!” Conko hit and ducked; and Hitch Diamond was jarred to the very marrow of his bones. A cold fury took the place of Hitch’s smile. “Go atter him! Foller him up!” Skeeter squealed. Conko shot a right hook at Hitch, who neatly side-stepped; then Hitch swung a terrible lefthand blow at the giant figure before him. “Right cross--lef’ hook, Hitch--dat’ll fix him!” Prince Total barked. Conko ducked and saved his jaw, but the blow landed on the side of his head. It was too high up to be vitally effective, but powerful enough to bring a black veil of unconsciousness across Conko’s mind. All faces vanished for a second; even Hitch Diamond disappeared; then when Hitch reappeared, Conko pecked savagely at his stomach. Hitch panted like a winded dog; they clinched, and Hitch, with his gorilla reach, pounded his enemy over the kidneys. “Hey, dar! Break ’em! No fair hittin’ in clinches!” the crowd of Conko backers yelled. Vinegar Atts grinned, yanked the pair out of the clinch, and a wolflike howl rose from the crowd. Hitch Diamond had landed a mighty blow in Conko’s stomach, and the Georgia Cyclone had fallen to his knees! Vinegar Atts began to count: “Fo’--five--six--seben--eight----” “Git up, Conko!” Skeeter Butts screamed in agony. “Fer Gawd’s sake----” “Nine----” Conko’s leap upward at this word carried him within striking distance of Hitch Diamond, and the crowd yelled wildly at a whirlwind rush which sent Hitch slipping and leaping like a flying shuttle to guard himself from the wild insurgence of that furious onslaught. The end of the round found both combatants laughing. Skeeter Butts, for his part, was alternately sweating cold and hot, and as nervous as a cat amid a pack of pop-crackers. The two men sat down in their corners, lying back with outstretched legs, resting their arms outstretched upon the ropes, gulping in the air fanned at them from the towels of the seconds. Their eyes were closed, and the roar of the crowd was a mighty thunder in their ears. The gong struck, and Conko Mukes stepped to the middle of the ring. “I done got dis here Hitch Diamond’s number!” he bawled. “Hitch ain’t nothin’ but a big gob of meat, an’ I’s gwine fry him in his own grease! Ef you got any money to bet, bet it all on me. I’s de wild ole ram of de Georgia swamp, an’ no nigger cain’t pick de cockle-burs outen my wool!”