His cigar gone, his hat smashed, his collar torn awry, Mike Riley succeeded in reaching Hoover. “You infernal idiot!” he puffed. “Didn’t you know better? What made ye do it?” “Bah!” retorted Jock with contempt and courage worthy of a better cause. “These barking curs won’t do anything. Give me a show, and I’ll break that left-handed dub’s face. He hasn’t got the courage to give me an opportunity right now――here. He’s a――――” The concluding epithet was a repetition of the insult he had hurled at Locke along with the bat. “No man can swallow that!” muttered Larry Stark. “Somebody must fight that miserable rowdy.” “Give me the chance,” said Tom Locke, “and give him the same even show, without interference. Let the crowd keep back.” They marveled at his calmness. Some of Hoover’s friends sought to rush him off, against his will, and the vociferous, twisting, lunging mass of humanity swept over to one side of the diamond, where Bent King had his hands full in the task of restraining his fretting span from plunging forward and trampling some of them. King had listened to Janet’s appeal, and dallied a few moments too long; now they were caught in the midst of the mob that packed close on all sides. Two men, taking note of his difficulty, grasped the horses by the bits; but the crowd, seemingly deaf and oblivious to everything except the imminent fist fight, could not be induced to make way. “I’m sorry, Janet,” said the lumberman’s son. “This is no place for you. I was a fool to wait a minute when the trouble began.” “Never mind,” she returned, her voice quivering a little, her face quite colorless. “I――I want to see. It isn’t right for them to fight; it isn’t fair. Lefty can’t be a match for that ruffian. Why don’t they stop it?” Not much time was wasted in preparation when it was understood that Locke was ready to meet his challenger. Members of the two teams began pushing the crowd back to make room, begging them to give the men a chance, and a fifteen-foot space was finally cleared. Eager spectators climbed upon the shoulders of those in front of them; the bleachers, at one end, were loaded to the cracking point with human beings; and every stout limb of a near-by tree quickly bore human fruit. Bareheaded, the men met in the center of the cleared space. Hoover came with a rush, and Locke was not dilatory. Plainly the Bully weighed ten or fifteen pounds more than his slender antagonist, and many a sympathizer with the youth feared the match must prove to be pitifully one-sided. Jock led, right and left; but the youngster parried, blocked, and countered like lightning, closing in without hesitation. His jaw was set, and he was still cool, while the Bancrofter blazed with all the fury of a conflagration. The sound of thudding blows caused Janet Harting to drop her parasol, which she had closed; her hands went up to her heart, and her lips were parted that she might breathe, the open air seeming close and smothery.