within an inch of Phil's. The strange scar on the forehead, usually white, glowed vividly. Then he turned and unpeeled a derisive wink at his companions. "What'll I do, spank Mamma's boy or lick 'ell out of him?"
"You won't lick any hell out of me," raged the boy, and led for that baleful scar.
Some skill he had, but all in a gentle game called "sparring," in which "points" and light smarting taps scored, instead of such smashing jolts as those from Pete's burly fists. The counter staggered him, and they mixed it, shifting around the narrow cabin until Pete's head struck the hanging lantern. Old Man Veldmann seized it and mounted an upturned cask, holding the light so that it always flickered on the slighter of the two antagonists.
In keen delight he watched them, alternately ejaculating tobacco-juice and adjectives, shifting his shoulders and shadow-boxing with his free fist in unconscious imitation of Pete.
"A pretty one ; smash him, ye . Neat, neat, my brave bucko! Ouch, but it's chile-murder!—By—but that drew the pretty red juice! Mess up the damned dude—spoil his bloody beauty, ye lazy lubber, ye've stalled long enough— Hell's bells—that went home!"
A jab or two from Pete; a clinch; a little infighting in the light of the swaying lantern; then they broke, and stood feinting and shifting for a moment. Pete loosed a swing for Phil's body—the latter dropped his guard a bit low—and the roustabout drove his huge right to the vital point
