It was an unequal fight. Bourne
was standing up to his man pluckily, and, thanks to the "agricultural"
style of the clodhopper, was not taking nearly so much harm as he should
have done. He was, however, pretty low down in the mouth, for there was
not a friendly eye to encourage him, nor a friendly shout to back him up.
On the contrary, the mob howled with delight as their man got "home," and
encouraged him: "Gow it, Dick! Knock the stuffin' out of 'im!"
Acton had not been noticed, but he thrust himself into the mob, and
said, "Stand back, you little beggars, or I'll massacre the lot of you.
Give the boy room, you filthy pigs!" The "pigs" scuttled back, and for
the first time Bourne really had fair play.
Acton took out his watch and assumed the direction of the fight.
"Time!" he shouted out. "You fellow, that's your corner, and if you stir
out of it before I give the word I'll thrash you within an inch of your
life. This will be ours, Bourne." He strode in between the two, and
pushed the yokel among his friends, whilst he dragged Bourne a little
apart.
"Thanks awfully, Acton. That beast knocked me off the path into the
snow-heap when he saw I was one of the school. I struck him, but he's a
big handful."
"Don't talk, Bourne," said Acton, grimly. "It's only wasting breath. Keep
cool, man, and you will pull it off yet."
Thanks to Acton's encouragement, young Bourne worked along ever so much
better, so that when time was called he had taken no damage practically,
but had scored a little on his own account.
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