Jack faced his foe undauntedly. Not for an instant did he remove his eyes from Brito’s. Despite the disparity in weapons he seemed not at all afraid. “All right!” he said, coolly. “You’ve got the advantage and I don’t doubt you’re cur enough to use it. When you’re ready, stop yelping and blaze away.” Brito flinched at the contempt in the American’s tones, but he held himself in check. “Where is the girl?” he rasped. “Where is she, d-- you? Where have you put her? Give her up, and I’ll let you crawl home. Quick, now, or you die.” Jack’s eyes widened. “The girl?” he echoed. “I haven’t”--he broke off--“Find her for yourself,” he finished. Alagwa knew that he had begun a denial. Why had he stopped? Had he suddenly guessed who she was? Or was he hoping to trap Brito into some admission--playing with him in the chilly dawn in the very face of death? Brito half raised his pistol, then lowered it. “I’ll find out now!” he gritted. “You’re at my mercy. I’ve got a right to kill you and I’ll do it. I’ll count three and then, if you don’t speak, I’ll fire.” Jack shrugged his shoulders. Alagwa noticed that he was edging closer and closer to the man who threatened him. “Don’t wait for me,” he answered scornfully. “Shoot and get it over with, you dog. As for telling you anything, it’s quite impossible. It isn’t done, you know. Shoot, you hound, shoot!” The last words were drowned in the roar of the heavy pistol. Brito had taken the lad at his word. But as his finger pressed the trigger, Jack struck him swiftly and desperately with his stick across the knuckles of his pistol hand. The blow was light but it was sufficient. Diverted, the ball went wide, burning but not breaking the skin on Jack’s side above his heart. Before the roar of the pistol had died away, Jack had sprung in. His fist caught the Englishman between the eyes. Bull as he was, the latter reeled backward. The useless pistol, jerked from his hand, flew through the air and thudded upon the ground. An instant he clutched at the air; then, like a cat, he was on his feet, launching forward to meet Jack’s assault. In England boxing was in tremendous favor, and even in America, prone to more violent methods, it was in high esteem. Rich and poor, peer and peasant, alike prided themselves on their strength and quickness in feint and blow. Prize fighters were honored, not merely by the rabble but by those who held themselves to be the salt of the earth. Brito had fought many a time, both for anger and for pleasure. Jack, less quarrelsome and less fond of the sport, was yet well trained in the use of his fists. Furiously the two men crashed together, Brito striving to crush his foe beneath his greater weight, and Jack striving vainly to gain room for a clean, straight stroke. Swift and brutal came the blows, short half-arm jabs, cruel and punishing. Once Jack was beaten to his knees, but he struggled up, striking blindly but so furiously that Brito staggered back.