Concombre Bateese, with his great mouth agape, stood for an instant as if the blow had stunned him in place of his master.  Then, suddenly he came to life, and leaped to David’s side.

“Diable!  Tonnerre!  You have not fight Concombre Bateese yet!” he howled.  “Non, you have cheat me, you have lie, you have run lak cat from Concombre Bateese, ze stronges’ man on all T’ree River!  You are wan’ gran’ coward, wan poltroon, an’ you ’fraid to fight me, who ees greates’ fightin’ man in all dees countree!  Sapristi!  Why you no hit Concombre Bateese, m’sieu?  Why you no hit ze greates’ fightin’ man w’at ees—­”

David did not hear the rest.  The opportunity was too tempting.  He swung, and with a huge grunt the gorilla-like body of Concombre Bateese rolled over that of the chief of the Boulains.  This time Carrigan did not wait, but followed up so closely that the half-breed had scarcely gathered the crook out of his knees when another blow on the jaw sent him into the sand again.  Three times he tried the experiment of regaining his feet, and three times he was knocked down.  After the last blow he raised himself groggily to a sitting posture, and there he remained, blinking like a stunned pig, with his big hands clutching in the sand.  He stared up unseeingly at Carrigan, who waited over him, and then stupidly at the transfixed cordon of men, whose eyes were bulging and who were holding their breath in the astonishment of this miracle which had descended upon them.  They heard Bateese muttering something incoherent as his head wobbled, and St. Pierre himself seemed to hear it, for he stirred and raised himself slowly, until he also was sitting in the sand, staring at Bateese.

Carrigan picked up his shirt, and the riverman who had brought him from the bateau returned with him to the canoe.  There was no demonstration behind them.  To David himself the whole thing had been an amazing surprise, and he was not at all reluctant to leave as quickly as his dignity would permit, before some other of St. Pierre’s people offered to put a further test upon his prowess.  He wanted to laugh.  He wanted to thank God at the top of his voice for the absurd run of luck that had made his triumph not only easy but utterly complete.  He had expected to win, but he had also expected a terrific fight before the last blow was struck.  And there had been no fight!  He was returning to the bateau without a scratch, his hair scarcely ruffled, and he had defeated not only St, Pierre, but the giant half-breed as well!  It was inconceivable—­and yet it had happened; a veritable burlesque, an opera-bouffe affair that might turn quickly into a tragedy if either St. Pierre or Concombre Bateese guessed the truth of it.  For in that event he might have to face them again, with the god of luck playing fairly, and he was honest enough with himself to confess that the idea no longer held either thrill or desire for him.  Now that he had seen both St. Pierre and Bateese stripped for battle, he had no further appetite for fistic discussion with them.  After all, there was a merit in caution, and he had several lucky stars to bless just at the present moment!