Even as the thought flashed through his brain he received a heavy blow on the side of his head that nearly knocked him down.  It was a man’s fist, directed by a man so angry and in such haste that the fist had missed the jaw for which it was aimed.  Martin turned as he staggered, and saw the fist coming at him in a wild swing.  Quite as a matter of course he ducked, and the fist flew harmlessly past, pivoting the man who had driven it.  Martin hooked with his left, landing on the pivoting man with the weight of his body behind the blow.  The man went to the ground sidewise, leaped to his feet, and made a mad rush.  Martin saw his passion-distorted face and wondered what could be the cause of the fellow’s anger.  But while he wondered, he shot in a straight left, the weight of his body behind the blow.  The man went over backward and fell in a crumpled heap.  Jimmy and others of the gang were running toward them.

Martin was thrilling all over.  This was the old days with a vengeance, with their dancing, and their fighting, and their fun.  While he kept a wary eye on his antagonist, he glanced at Lizzie.  Usually the girls screamed when the fellows got to scrapping, but she had not screamed.  She was looking on with bated breath, leaning slightly forward, so keen was her interest, one hand pressed to her breast, her cheek flushed, and in her eyes a great and amazed admiration.

The man had gained his feet and was struggling to escape the restraining arms that were laid on him.

“She was waitin’ for me to come back!” he was proclaiming to all and sundry.  “She was waitin’ for me to come back, an’ then that fresh guy comes buttin’ in.  Let go o’ me, I tell yeh.  I’m goin’ to fix ’m.”

“What’s eatin’ yer?” Jimmy was demanding, as he helped hold the young fellow back.  “That guy’s Mart Eden.  He’s nifty with his mits, lemme tell you that, an’ he’ll eat you alive if you monkey with ’m.”

“He can’t steal her on me that way,” the other interjected.

“He licked the Flyin’ Dutchman, an’ you know him,” Jimmy went on expostulating.  “An’ he did it in five rounds.  You couldn’t last a minute against him.  See?”

This information seemed to have a mollifying effect, and the irate young man favored Martin with a measuring stare.

“He don’t look it,” he sneered; but the sneer was without passion.

“That’s what the Flyin’ Dutchman thought,” Jimmy assured him.  “Come on, now, let’s get outa this.  There’s lots of other girls.  Come on.”

The young fellow allowed himself to be led away toward the pavilion, and the gang followed after him.

“Who is he?” Martin asked Lizzie.  “And what’s it all about, anyway?”

Already the zest of combat, which of old had been so keen and lasting, had died down, and he discovered that he was self-analytical, too much so to live, single heart and single hand, so primitive an existence.