The boy gathered himself together like a bundle of tightened springs. Straight and true, swift as a piston flashes when the engine speeds on at seventy miles an hour, the blow drove to the jaw. Pete rocked; swayed gently; his head sank on one side; the powerful knees sagged like a child's. In a flash the girl saw the boy measure the tottering figure. Once, in a paddock, she had seen a farmer strike a doomed steer with an axe. The first blow was not true. She remembered the thud. He lifted the axe a second time. It was like Ben's measuring glance. Again Ben's fist shot out, straight for the jaw with the silly grin, and the stricken fighter crumpled in a heap like the falling steer.
"No need of countin' this time," said Jack Beam.
His face, like the others gathered round under the murmuring palm, had a savage look. Even the good-natured dancer's was gazing in an unholy fascination at the victor's. Why were men like that—and women, too? Were they human beings after all? Even Uncle Harve—and Ben. She sobbed aloud. Then she saw the boy's bleeding face, his figure, relax. She sprang towards him, but he straightened and brushed her aside with that steel forearm. The lust of battle was still there.
"Now, Huntington, put up your dukes—if you're not all yellow."
That youth accepted the challenge, forcing an unconcern which he was far from feeling, but the Captain, Benson, and the gambler, stepped forward.
"Enough for tonight, young fellow," said the former, "I'm in command here."
