Spot Miller had been sparring for an opening for an under-hook, and was about to run his fist clean through John Perkins, when Big Yaller Marshall started for Spot and I punched Big Yaller in the paunch and doubled him up. It is swollen to this day. Fitzsimmons hit Corbett just a little above where I hit Big Yaller, but he wrote me afterwards that he aimed at the same place. Ed ran clean over Bob Bright to get at George Morgan, who had Bob Clark down rubbing dirt in his mouth. It was just getting where the fun was ripest when Bob Bright called a truce. Bill Allen’s nose was bleeding again, and the boys all wanted to see that, for Bill had the out-bleedingest nose ever stuck on mortal face. I have seen it myself, coupled with what other boys have seen and sworn to, bleed four barrels on a stretch, and a good deal on the ground, judging by the way he messed up his clothes and things around for ten feet, though of course he may not have bled more than half that much. Billy Hill ran over home to get a bunch of keys to hang down his back, and I rolled up a piece of paper and made him put it over his front gums and draw his lip tightly over it. Hal McKinney (his father was a doctor and Hal was then a candidate) pressed his fingers hard up and down by the side of Bill’s nose, and Ed made Bill spit on a chip and he went off and hid it under a rock. That last is considered about infallible, but it all failed on Bill’s nose, and then Big Yaller told him to scratch in the ground with his big toe, and bleed forty drops in it and cover it up with a leaf and say: “Bloody nose, two big toes, No more blood than this goes.” Strange to say, that failed, too. When Bill’s nose started in to play ball it finished out nine innings. Bill is no more, and a royal good fellow he was, but I have seen him shed more blood than Bragg’s army, and I can prove it. Bob Bright started home with Bill, where they knew better how to humor his nose, and George Steel laughed at John Formwalt’s smeared face, and John doused him, and the war broke out with worse sanguinary symptoms than ever, the crowd gradually dividing into two parties and backing off and resorting to rocks. It looks dangerous and bloody on ordinary white paper like this to read about two dozen boys, all throwing rocks at short range, so thick and fast that you might hold up your hat and catch it full, and it looks like somebody ought to get hurt, but they don’t much. I never saw a boy knocked more than one somerset at a time, and besides that, a boy is as hard to hit as a kildee.