“Don’t you be wasting of me good time in the numbering of me hands,” cried Freckles.  “The stringth of me cause will make up for the weakness of me mimbers, and the size of a cowardly thief doesn’t count.  You’ll think all the wildcats of the Limberlost are turned loose on you whin I come against you, and as for me cause——­I slept with you, Wessner, the night I came down the corduroy like a dirty, friendless tramp, and the Boss was for taking me up, washing, clothing, and feeding me, and giving me a home full of love and tinderness, and a master to look to, and good, well-earned money in the bank.  He’s trusting me his heartful, and here comes you, you spotted toad of the big road, and insults me, as is an honest Irish gintleman, by hinting that you concaive I’d be willing to shut me eyes and hold fast while you rob him of the thing I was set and paid to guard, and then act the sneak and liar to him, and ruin and eternally blacken the soul of me.  You damned rascal,” raved Freckles, “be fighting before I forget the laws of a gintlemin’s game and split your dirty head with me stick!”

Wessner backed away, mumbling, “But I don’t want to hurt you, Freckles!”

“Oh, don’t you!” raged the boy, now fairly frothing.  “Well, you ain’t resembling me none, for I’m itching like death to git me fingers in the face of you.”

He danced up, and as Wessner lunged in self-defense, ducked under his arm as a bantam and punched him in the pit of the stomach so that he doubled with a groan.  Before Wessner could straighten himself, Freckles was on him, fighting like the wildest fury that ever left the beautiful island.  The Dutchman dealt thundering blows that sometimes landed and sent Freckles reeling, and sometimes missed, while he went plunging into the swale with the impetus of them.  Freckles could not strike with half Wessner’s force, but he could land three blows to the Dutchman’s one.  It was here that the boy’s days of alert watching on the line, the perpetual swinging of the heavy cudgel, and the endurance of all weather stood him in good stead; for he was tough, and agile.  He skipped, ducked, and dodged.  For the first five minutes he endured fearful punishment.  Then Wessner’s breath commenced to whistle between his teeth, when Freckles only had begun fighting.  He sprang back with shrill laughter.

“Begolly! and will your honor be whistling the hornpipe for me to be dancing of?” he cried.

Spang! went his fist into Wessner’s face, and he was past him into the swale.

“And would you be pleased to tune up a little livelier?” he gasped, and clipped his ear as he sprang back.  Wessner lunged at him in blind fury.  Freckles, seeing an opening, forgot the laws of a gentleman’s game and drove the toe of his heavy wading-boot in Wessner’s middle until he doubled and fell heavily.  In a flash Freckles was on him.  For a time McLean could not see what was happening.  “Go!  Go to him now!” he commanded himself, but so intense was his desire to see the boy win alone that he did not stir.