Meantime East is freshening up Tom with the sponges for next round, and
has set two other boys to rub his hands.
"Tom, old boy," whispers he, "this may be fun for you, but it's death to
me. He'll hit all the fight out of you in another five minutes, and then
I shall go and drown myself in the island ditch. Feint him; use your
legs; draw him about. He'll lose his wind then in no time, and you can
go into him. Hit at his body too; we'll take care of his frontispiece
by-and-by."
Tom felt the wisdom of the counsel, and saw already that he couldn't go
in and finish the Slogger off at mere hammer and tongs, so changed his
tactics completely in the third round. He now fights cautiously, getting
away from and parrying the Slogger's lunging hits, instead of trying
to counter, and leading his enemy a dance all round the ring after
him. "He's funking; go in, Williams," "Catch him up," "Finish him off,"
scream the small boys of the Slogger party.
"Just what we want," thinks East, chuckling to himself, as he sees
Williams, excited by these shouts, and thinking the game in his own
hands, blowing himself in his exertions to get to close quarters again,
while Tom is keeping away with perfect ease.
They quarter over the ground again and again, Tom always on the
defensive.
The Slogger pulls up at last for a moment, fairly blown.
"Now, then, Tom," sings out East, dancing with delight.
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