The moral support of his fellow workers meant little to Nathan, however. He had to finish Plumb or be finished himself. And those who, through that summer, had called Nat a mollycoddle because he was finer grained than themselves, were swift and fair in revising their opinion and giving the stripling all the credit his proven prowess deserved. The two came together in clinches only to break away when one saw an opening for a telling blow. Twice they both went down. The battle each time turned into a wrestling match, with any sort of a “hold” permitted,—biting, eye-gouging and hair-tearing being eminently permissible so long as it brought results. At a quarter to one the fight had started. Fifteen minutes later it was still going strong,—arms and faces of both combatants bleeding, shirts ripped to ribbons, lungs bursting. The employees paid no attention to the tannery whistle for the reason that no tannery whistle was blown. The engineer and fireman were enthusiastically howling in the front row of spectators. The absence of the whistle was responsible for bringing Caleb Gridley down into the yard. But the old war-horse of the local leather business was immediately too interested himself to interfere or start his factory. He stood with a fierce, hard joy in his eye, awaiting the finish. That finish came at ten minutes after one. Silas, worsted but unconquered, picked up a piece of board and swung it terribly for Nathan’s head. A howl of protest arose, then approval as Nathan dodged. But Nathan had not dodged far enough nor soon enough. The board ripped his left ear from the side of his head. Silas followed in, raising one of his big boots to kick his opponent below the belt. By accident more than design, Nathan tripped him. As Silas went down, Nathan sent a left jab to his jaw. It rocked the roughneck’s head. He sagged, grinned, pitched downward on his forehead, and went peacefully off to hear little birds sing sweetly. The fight was finished. Likewise both participants. For Nathan saw his man prostrate, took three steps and crumpled—senseless. Old Caleb pushed forward. “Take the kid to the office,” he ordered curtly. Grim satisfaction lay on his paving-block jaw. “As for that low-brow, leave him lie busted. I stand for the man that fights fair!” They carried the unconscious Nathan to tannery headquarters. Doctor Johnson was summoned by telephone. Nat was losing alarming quantities of blood from the ragged ear and more was trickling out between his teeth. First aid was administered, but it was a sickening business. “That’s nasty bad,” Johnson commented as he tried to wash the wound. “It’s almost tore from his head—this ear!” “Sew it back,” commanded Caleb. “But he’ll bear the scar for life.” “Can’t help that! Sew it back! Mustn’t have so gamey a little bantam goin’ through life with one ear missin’!”