Once more came the light tread of quick-moving feet, once more John
Barty feinted cunningly--once more his fist shot out, but this time
it missed its mark, for, ducking the blow, Barnabas smacked home two
lightning blows on his father's ribs and danced away again light and
buoyant as a cork.
"Stand up an' fight, lad!" growled his father, "plant your feet
square--never go hopping about on your toe-points like a French
dancing-master."
"Why as to that, father, Natty Bell, as you know, holds that it is
the quicker method," here Barnabas smote his father twice upon the
ribs, "and indeed I think it is," said he, deftly eluding the
ex-champion's return.
"Quicker, hey?" sneered his father, and with the words came his
fist--to whizz harmlessly past Barnabas's ear--"we'll prove that."
"Haven't we had almost enough?" inquired Barnabas, dropping his fists.
"Enough? why we aren't begun yet, lad."
"Then how long are we to go on?"
"How long?" repeated John, frowning; "why--that depends on you,
Barnabas."
"How on me, father?"
"Are ye still minded to go to London?"
"Of course."
"Then we'll go on till you think better of it--or till you knock me
down, Barnabas my lad."
"Why then, father, the sooner I knock you down the better!"
"What?" exclaimed John Barty, staring, "d' ye mean to say--you think
you can?--me?--you?"
"Yes," nodded Barnabas.
"My poor lad!" sighed his father, "your head's fair crazed, sure as
sure, but if you think you can knock John Barty off his pins, do it,
and there y' are."
"I will," said Barnabas, "though as gently as possible."
And now they fell to it in silence, a grim silence broken only by
the quick tread and shuffle of feet and the muffled thud of blows.
John Barty, resolute of jaw, indomitable and calm of eye, as in the
days when champions had gone down before the might of his fist;
Barnabas, taller, slighter, but full of the supreme confidence of
youth. Moreover, he had not been the daily pupil of two such past
masters in the art for nothing; and now he brought to bear all his
father's craft and cunning, backed up by the lightning precision of
Natty Bell. In all his many hard-fought battles John Barty had ever
been accounted most dangerous when he smiled, and he was smiling now.
Twice Barnabas staggered back to the wall, and there was an ugly
smear upon his cheek, yet as they struck and parried, and feinted,
Barnabas, this quick-eyed, swift-footed Barnabas, was smiling also.
Thus, while they smiled upon and smote each other, the likeness
between them was more apparent than ever, only the smile of Barnabas
was the smile of youth, joyous, exuberant, unconquerable. Noting
which Experienced Age laughed short and fierce, and strode in to
strike Youth down--then came a rush of feet, the panting hiss of
breath, the shock of vicious blows, and John Barty, the unbeaten
ex-champion of all England, threw up his arms, staggered back the
length of the room, and went down with a crash.