Bob rushed forward and aimed a blow at Quincy's face. It fell short, for Quincy retreated; then, springing forward, he gave Bob a violent kick on his left knee. As his opponent threw his right leg over to keep his balance he was obliged to lean forward; Quincy caught him by the collar and Bob went sprawling upon the ground. He leaped to his feet, red with rage. “Why don't you fight fair?” he bellowed. “You fight your way and I'll fight mine,” was Quincy's reply. “All right,” cried Bob, “I'll try your way.” He sprang upon Quincy and grabbed him by the collar with both hands and pulled him forward. This just suited Quincy, for, catching Bob around the legs, he lifted him high in the air and threw him backwards over his head. Bob's face was cut and bleeding, when he arose. “Time's up,” cried Tom. “Three straight falls settle it.” “The first one don't count,” growled Bob. “He sneaked in on me and I had no show.” “He's right, Tom,” said Quincy. “We'll have one more after this if he wants it.” This time Bob profited by having observed his antagonist's tactics. He caught Quincy around the body and tried to crush him with his brawny, muscular arms. Tom gave a cry of alarm and came close to the wrestlers. “Keep back, Tom,” cried Quincy. As he spoke he fell backwards, carrying Bob with him, who gave a yell of exultation as Quincy's shoulders struck the ground. His hold was relaxed while falling. Quincy doubled his legs up, put both feet against Bob's stomach, gave him a violent kick, and Bob was once more upon his back. “'Twarn't fair,” he yelled. “I had him down first.” “We weren't playing for points,” said Quincy, “and everything's fair in rough and tumble. If you want some more, I'm ready.” Bob stood sullenly, but made no move forward. “Now, let's talk it over,” said Tom. “Do you think this young lady or my friend lied to you? Before you answer, just remember this is my fight now, and unless you take back the lie and apologize for what you said and did to this young lady, I'll thrash you so they'll have to send a wagon to carry you home.” Bob did not speak. “Quincy,” said Tom, “you go along with the young lady, and I'll settle my account after you're gone. You look a little white around the gills. You had no right to fight a heavy-weight like him.” “I wish to thank you both,” said Mary, “but I'm a stranger in this town--I have lived here only a few months, and--I don't know your names.” She blushed prettily and the lids modestly covered the blue eyes. The three had moved along the road a short distance while she was speaking. “My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer, and this is my friend and classmate at Andover, Thomas Chripp.” The lids were lifted but the blush deepened. “My name is Mary Dana. I live with my father on Pettingill Street.” “Why,” cried Quincy, “Ezekiel Pettingill is my uncle--I live with him. I'm going home your way, and, with your permission, I will escort you to your father's house.”