Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 6, 1923 — page 57: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

SO THIS IS WEDLOCK! one whale of a lad. His forearms were thicker than his own biceps, and. his chest was round as a keg. His doubled fists looked the size of young cabbages, and much harder. But all this did not disturb the Slapper. He had put on the mitts too many times with men twice his weight, and made them look foolish. Mere muscle meant nothing whatever to him. And be- cause he had so often appeared in public, and before audiences so much more critical and outspoken than this one, he felt not the slightest sense of embarrassment. Even Micah, angry as he was, and delighted at the chance to show off before his towns- men, was not so entirely at ease. The Slapper was glad that he wore sneak- ers instead of the narrow toed tan shoes he had first selected. He took careful note of the footing; it wasn’t too good, consisting of wiry turf, somewhat uneven, flanked at a distance of about thirty yards by the pond and the grove. One might easily slip here, or turn an ankle. And although he had been through his share of gang fights in which bare fists—and worse—had been used, he would have been more at home with a nice set of gloves laced upon his hands; say five ouncers, with the horsehair neatly worked back from the knuckles. Micah took the offensive. It wouldn’t look good for the bigger, heavier man to settle back and wait for his weaker oppo- nent to attack. So, with an awkward, rak- ing swoop, he threw out his right with all his force behind it, making no preliminary feint. The Slapper threw up his left very slightly, and turned his head; but there was such tremendous power in the blow that, al- though it was only glancing, he was swept clean off his feet and stretched on his side in the grass. A murmur rose from the crowd, and Micah snarled triumphantly and jumped in. In his code, when you got a man down you did your best work. He didn’t get up again until he said he’d had enough. But the Slapper wasn’t hurt. He jumped lightly to his feet, grinning. He had at least found out that the village champion packed a mean wallop. It would pay him not to get careless and let one of those hay- makers slip through his defense, or he’d be 839 knocked for a chain of lobster pots! He glanced right and left to see that the crowd Was giving him plenty of room. The battal- ion of small boys stared up into his face as Raphael’s cherubs gaze upon the Apos- tles. The Slapper filled his lungs and be- gan a series of rapid and baffling feints. That is, they might have been baffling had Micah paid the slightest attention to them. He didn’t. Having, as he conceived, scored a clean knockdown with the utmost ease, he craved for another, and tore wildly in, wide open, both arms flailing. The Slapper let him come, then leaned in and flickered out a long left that seemed merely to caress Micah’s nose; but a stream of red blood spurted from it, as if one had smashed a beet with a baseball bat. It looked worse than it hurt, but it hurt some. And the yells with which the sight of gore was greeted hurt him much more. Wedlock rose, as Nero’s Rome used to do, and as live men always do under similar circum- stances. Micah didn’t know just how it had happened, but tore after his elusive oppo- nent, determined to get him to earth again. And now, he was mad enough to finish the job with his stout boots when the chance came. It wasn’t easy to keep away from him, partly because the onlookers crowded too close, and more because of the footing. The Slapper knew that it would never do to stand and swap punches, much less to fall into a clinch. Nobody was holding a watch on them; there were evidently to be no rounds, no rest periods. Just a fight to a finish. He was by no means certain that anybody would protest were Micah to hit low, or give him the knee. And if they did, much good it would do him! His problem then was to take the offen- sive, but at long range. He began dancing in and out, bewildering his man by a tantal- izing play of arms, the seeming proffer of an unprotected jaw, a quick step to one side or the other, always in motion, coming in, jumping away, doing the unexpected, and, as it seemed to Micah, the meaning- less. And all the time, with straight jabs, counters, hooks, chops, jolts, he was scor- ing on Micah’s ugly mug. On his body, too, in order to bring his hands down; COMmiclooe S (©