I believe it was my refusal to back his paper which was
running in his head. Anyway he looked as dangerous as he
could look, with his scowling face sunk forward a little,
his hands down near his hips (for his boxing, like
everything else about him, is unconventional), and his
jaw set like a rat-trap.
I led off, and then in he came hitting with both
hands, and grunting like a pig at every blow. From what
I could see of him he was no boxer at all, but just a
formidable rough and tumble fighter. I was guarding
with both hands for half a minute, and then was rushed
clean off my legs and banged up against the door, with my
head nearly through one of the panels. He wouldn't stop
then, though he saw that I had no space to get my elbows
back; and he let fly a right-hander which would have put
me into the hall, if I hadn't slipped it and got back to
the middle of the room.
"Look here, Cullingworth," said I; "there's not much
boxing about this game."
"Yes, I hit pretty hard, don't I?"
"If you come boring into me like that, I'm bound to
hit you out again," I said. "I want to play light if
you'll let me."
The words were not out of my mouth before he was on
me like a flash. I slipped him again; but the room was
so small, and he as active as a cat, that there was no
getting away from him. He was on me once more with a
regular football rush that knocked me off my balance.
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