“Corec,” said Joe. “Larree, you fight all the same Mack Morrison's ram. Head down, jump in--head down, jump in. Why you run so queek on dat Mop feller? Why you not make him run after you?”
“He's right, Larry,” said Ben. “Use your feet; make him come after you. You will sure get his wind.”
But Larry stood recovering his breath, glowering meanwhile at his enemy across the ring. He neither heeded nor heard the entreaties of his friends. In his ears one phrase only rang with insistent reiteration. “He's a coward, an' his mother's a coward before him.” Only one obsession possessed him, he must keep hard at his enemy.
“Time!” The second round was on. Like a tiger upon his prey, Larry was upon his foe, driving fast and furious blows upon his head and face. But this time Mop was ready for him, and bearing in, head down, he took on his left guard the driving blows with no apparent injury, and sent back some half a dozen heavy swings that broke down Larry's guard, drove him across the ring and finally brought him gasping to his knees.
“Stay where you are,” yelled Ben. “Take your count, Larry, and keep away from him. Do you hear me? Keep away, always away.”
At the ninth count Larry sprang to his feet, easily eluded Mop's swinging blow, and slipping lightly around the ring, escaped further attack until he had picked up his wind.
“That's the game,” yelled Ben. “Keep it up, old boy, keep it up.”
“C'est bon stuff, Larree,” yelled Joe, dancing wildly in Ben's corner. “C'est bon stuff, Larree, for sure.”
But once more master of his wind, Larry renewed his battering assault upon Mop's head, inflicting some damage indeed, but receiving heavy punishment in return. The close of the round found him exhausted and bleeding. In spite of the adjurations and entreaties of his friends, Larry pursued the same tactics in the third round, which ended even more disastrously than the second. His condition was serious enough to bring Mack Morrison to his side.
“What's up with you, Larry?” said Mack. “Where's your science gone? Why don't you play the game as you know it?”
“Mack, Mack,” panted Larry. “It ain't a game. I'm--I'm fighting, and, Mack, I'm not afraid of him.”
Mack whistled. “Who said you are afraid of him, youngster?”