“The naygur first—­to hold me, whilst the Greeks slip a dirk in me,” he decided shrewdly.

He heard the scuttering rush start, and, with the shock of combat, his carefully prearranged plan of battle quite fled his mercurial mind.  He met the charge with a joyous screech, forgot that he had a club, and kicked viciously out with his right foot.  His heavy logger’s boots connected with something soft and yielding, which instinct told Mr. O’Leary was an abdomen; instinct, coupled with experience, informed him further that no man could assimilate that mighty kick in the abdomen and yet remain perpendicular, whereupon.  Dirty Dan leaped high in the air and came down with both terrible calked boots on something which gave slightly under him and moaned.  On the instant, he received a light blow in the breast and knew he had been stabbed.

He remembered his club now; as he backed away swiftly, he swung it, and, from the impact, concluded he had struck a neck or shoulder.  That was the luck of night-fighting; so, with a bitter curse, Dirty Dan swung again, in the pious hope of connecting with a skull; he scored a clean miss and was, by the tremendous force of his swing, turned completely round.  Before he could recover his balance, a hand grasped his ankle and he came down heavily on his face; instantly, his assailant’s knees were pressed into his back.  With a mighty heave he sought to free himself, at the same time flinging both long legs upward, after the fashion of one who strives to kick himself in the small of the back; whereupon a knife drove deep into his instep, and he realized he had not acted a split second too soon to save himself from a murderous thrust in the kidneys—­a Greek’s favorite blow.

In battle, Dirty Dan’s advantage lay always in his amazing speed and the terrible fury of his attack during the first five minutes.  Even as he threw up his feet, he drew back, an elbow and crashed it into his enemy’s ribs; like a flash, his arm straightened, and his sinewy hand closed over the wrist of an arm that struggled in vain to strike downward.  Holding that wrist securely, Dirty Dan heaved upward, got his left elbow under his body, and rested a few moments; another mighty heave, and he tossed off the Greek, and, whirling with the speed of a pin-wheel, was on top of his man.  He had momentarily released his hold on the Greek’s wrist, however, and he had to fight for another hold now—­in the dark.  Presently he captured it, twisted the arm in the terrible hammer-lock, and broke it; then, while the Greek lay writhing in agony, Mr. O’Leary leaped to his feet and commenced to play with his awful boots a devil’s tattoo on that portion of his enemy’s superstructure so frequently alluded to in pugilistic circles as “the slats.”  After five or six kicks, however, he paused, due to a difficulty in breathing; so he struck a match and surveyed the stricken field.