“Mercy! mercy!” screamed the lad, clasping his hands imploringly, and endeavoring to throw himself at the feet of his captors.  “Do not beat me, for Heaven’s sake, for I am a—­”

The rest of the boy’s remarks were lost in the confusion which his outburst of grief occasioned, yet no one seemed disposed to interfere with the regular course of things, as the miner had custom to sustain him in his conduct.

“I’ll stand by my bargain,” the brute said, with a grim smile; “if the gentleman wants you, he can have you on the terms that he offered—­a regular Englishman’s battle, and fair play to all.”

“Your proposition is accepted,” cried Fred, turning to Tom, who did not receive the notice with that alacrity which we expected.

Fred threw off his jacket, and that was the signal for the formation of a ring some thirty feet wide in the centre; but the desperate struggles which were made to get within sight and hearing prevented the space from being very regular, and the ring from being very round.

The miner leisurely stripped off his superfluous clothing, and his form was large enough to strike terror into the hearts of those who had not made the art of self-defence a study for years, as I well knew that Fred had.  The man’s arms were brawny and muscular, and longer than Fred’s, and when the two men took their positions, I confess that I had some fear for the safety of my friend.  But if I looked fearful Fred did not, and no one could have traced upon his face the least emotion or sign of dismay.

But with all the ruffian’s physical force, he looked far from confident, and I have no doubt that if he had possessed a sufficient excuse, he would have quitted the ring, and acknowledged the defeat without a struggle.

The Irishman and myself were Fred’s seconds, and the miner who helped Tom hold the boy was obliged to relinquish his prize, and assist his friend, no one else volunteering.

For a few minutes after the men were placed, each stood upon the defensive, and waited for hostilities.  It was no part of Fred’s plan to begin the battle, as he wanted to discover whether Tom possessed science, as well as vast strength; and he was not in this respect kept long in suspense, for the miner advanced towards him, swinging his long arms and huge fists in the most ridiculous manner, and which caused the Irishman to shout,—­

“Make way for the windmill, there.”

A roar of laughter greeted the Irishman’s sally, which caused Tom some confusion, and before he could recover from his bewilderment, Fred had sprang within his reach, and dealt him a blow that sent him reeling to the extremity of the ring, where he fell heavily upon the ground.

“The windmill goes stern fust, and no mistake.  Holy St. Patrick! but isn’t he groggy?”

The slang term groggy was well understood by those present, and when Tom gained his feet, he was saluted with another roar of laughter, that made him foam with rage.