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Page 23
There was no mistaking his actions. Redmond followed suit. A few
seconds he looked dubiously at his horse, then back at Yorke.
"Oh, you needn't be scared of Fox beating it," remarked that gentleman a
trifle wearily, "he'll stand as good as old Parson if you chuck his lines
down."
Shading his eyes from the sun-glare he took a rapid survey of their
surroundings, then led the way to a wind-swept patch of ground, more or
less bare of snow. Arriving thither, as if by mutual consent they flung
off caps, side-arms, fur-coats and stable-jackets. Yorke, a graceful,
compactly-built figure of a man, sized up his slightly heavier opponent
with an approving eye.
"You strip good" he said carelessly. "Well! what's it to be? . . .
'muck' or 'muffin'?"
"'Muffin' of course!" snapped Redmond angrily, "what d'ye take me for?--a
'rough-house meal ticket'?"
"All right!" said Yorke soothingly, "don't lose your temper!"
It may have been a shrewdly-calculated attempt to attain that end; and
yet again it may have been only sheer mechanical habit that prompted him
to stretch forth his hands in the customary salute of the ring.
With an inarticulate exclamation of rage the younger man struck the
proffered hands aside and led with a straight left for the other's head.
Yorke blocked it cleverly and fell into a clinch.
"Ah!" murmured Yorke in his antagonist's ear with a sinister smile,
"rotten manners! for just that, my buck, I'll make you scoff 'muffin'
'till you're quite poorly!"
Working his arms cautiously, he sprang clear of the clinch, then, rushing
his man and feinting for the ribs, he rocked Redmond's head back with two
terrific left and right hooks to the jaw.
The jarring sting of the punches, although dazing him slightly, brought
Redmond to his senses, as he realized how vulnerable his momentary loss
of temper had rendered him. He now braced himself with dogged
determination and, covering up warily, circled his adversary with clever
foot-work. Yorke, tearing in again was met with one of the crudest jabs
he had ever known--flush in the mouth. Gamely he retaliated with a
stinging uppercut and a right swing which, coming home on Redmond's
cheek-bone, whirled him off his balance and sent him sprawling.
Dazed, but not daunted, he scrambled to his feet. Yorke, blowing upon
his knuckles with all the air of an old-time "Regency blood," waited with
heaving chest and scornful, narrowed eyes.
"Want to elevate the sponge?" he queried sneeringly.
"No!" panted George grimly, "it was you started the whole rotten dirty
business, and, by gum! I'll finish it!"
Dancing in and out he drew an ineffective left from his opponent and
countered with a pile-driving right to the heart. Yorke gave vent to a
groaning exclamation and turned pale. He spat gaspingly out of his
mashed lips and propped Redmond off awhile; then, suddenly springing in
again he attempted to mix it. George was nothing loath, and the two men,
standing toe-to-toe, slugged each other with a perfect whirlwind of
damaging punches to face and body.
Even in the giddy whirl of combat, in either man's heart now was a wonder
almost akin to respect for each other's ring knowledge and gameness. It
was not George's first bout by many, but the physical endurance of this
hard, clean-hitting Corinthian of a man was an astounding revelation to
him; the science of the graceful, narrow-waisted figure was still as
quick and as punishing as a steel trap.
Yorke, for his part, reflected with bitter irony how utterly erroneous
had been his primary calculations--how Nemesis was hard upon his heels at
last in the guise of this relentless youngster, who fought like a
college-bred "Charley Mitchell."
Ding! dong!--hook, jab, uppercut, block, and swing; in and out, back and
forth, side-stepping and head-work--one long exhausting round. Flesh and
blood could not stand the pace--though it was Redmond now who forced it.
Neither of the men was in training and the long strain began to tell upon
them both cruelly--especially upon the veteran Yorke. Still, with
frosted hair and streaming faces, the sweat-soaked, bruised and bleeding
combatants staggered against each other and strove to make play with
their weary arms, until utter exhaustion rang the time gong.
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