Awed by the presence of the fireman, Simpson’s followers confined themselves to cheering Brick and jeering Joe.  The two boys circled round and round, attacking, feinting, and guarding, and now one and then the other getting in a telling blow.  Their positions were in marked contrast.  Joe stood erect, planted solidly on his feet, with legs wide apart and head up.  On the other hand, Simpson crouched till his head was nearly lost between his shoulders, and all the while he was in constant motion, leaping and springing and manoeuvering in the execution of a score or more of tricks quite new and strange to Joe.

At the end of a quarter of an hour, both were very tired, though Joe was much fresher.  Tobacco, ill food, and unhealthy living were telling on the gang-leader, who was panting and sobbing for breath.  Though at first (and because of superior skill) he had severely punished Joe, he was now weak and his blows were without force.  Growing desperate, he adopted what might be called not an unfair but a mean method of attack:  he would manoeuver, leap in and strike swiftly, and then, ducking forward, fall to the ground at Joe’s feet.  Joe could not strike him while he was down, and so would step back until he could get on his feet again, when the thing would be repeated.

But Joe grew tired of this, and prepared for him.  Timing his blow with Simpson’s attack, he delivered it just as Simpson was ducking forward to fall.  Simpson fell, but he fell over on one side, whither he had been driven by the impact of Joe’s fist upon his head.  He rolled over and got half-way to his feet, where he remained, crying and gasping.  His followers called upon him to get up, and he tried once or twice, but was too exhausted and stunned.

“I give in,” he said.  “I ’m licked.”

The gang had become silent and depressed at its leader’s defeat.

Joe stepped forward.

“I ’ll trouble you for those kites,” he said to the boy who was holding them.

“Oh, I dunno,” said another member of the gang, shoving in between Joe and his property.  His hair was also a vivid red.  “You ’ve got to lick me before you kin have ’em.”

“I don’t see that,” Joe said bluntly.  “I ’ve fought and I ’ve won, and there ’s nothing more to it.”

“Oh, yes, there is,” said the other.  “I ’m ‘Sorrel-top’ Simpson.  Brick ’s my brother.  See?”

And so, in this fashion, Joe learned another custom of the Pit People of which he had been ignorant.

“All right,” he said, his fighting blood more fully aroused than ever by the unjustness of the proceeding.  “Come on.”

Sorrel-top Simpson, a year younger than his brother, proved to be a most unfair fighter, and the good-natured fireman was compelled to interfere several times before the second of the Simpson clan lay on the ground and acknowledged defeat.

This time Joe reached for his kites without the slightest doubt that he was to get them.  But still another lad stepped in between him and his property.  The telltale hair, vividly red, sprouted likewise on this lad’s head, and Joe knew him at once for what he was, another member of the Simpson clan.  He was a younger edition of his brothers, somewhat less heavily built, with a face covered with a vast quantity of freckles, which showed plainly under the electric light.