He caught a blow on the arm and gave ground. Charles pressed him.
Then he hit with his right and with the violence of despair. It
was a hit of his own devising,--an impromptu,--but it chanced to
coincide with the regulation hook hit at the head. He perceived
with a leap of exultation that the thing his fist had met was the
jawbone of Charles. It was the sole gleam of pleasure he
experienced during the fight, and it was quite momentary. He had
hardly got home upon Charles before he was struck in the chest
and whirled backward. He had the greatest difficulty in keeping
his feet. He felt that his heart was smashed flat. "Gord darm!"
said somebody, dancing toe in hand somewhere behind him. As Mr.
Hoopdriver staggered, Charles gave a loud and fear-compelling
cry. He seemed to tower over Hoopdriver in the moonlight. Both
his fists were whirling. It was annihilation coming--no less. Mr.
Hoopdriver ducked perhaps and certainly gave ground to the right,
hit, and missed. Charles swept round to the left, missing
generously. A blow glanced over Mr. Hoopdriver's left ear, and
the flanking movement was completed. Another blow behind the ear.
Heaven and earth spun furiously round Mr. Hoopdriver, and then he
became aware of a figure in a light suit shooting violently
through an open gate into the night. The man in gaiters sprang
forward past Mr. Hoopdriver, but too late to intercept the
fugitive. There were shouts, laughter, and Mr. Hoopdriver, still
solemnly squaring, realized the great and wonderful
truth--Charles had fled.
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