Now I am going to tap your forehead." Tap, tap, went French's open knuckles upon the Galician's forehead.
"Look out, man." Tap, tap, tap, the knuckles went rapping on the man's forehead, despite his flying arms.
"Now," said French, "hit me." The Galician made a feeble attempt.
"Oh, don't be afraid.

Hit me hard." The Galician lunged forward, but met rigid arms.
"Come, come," said French, reaching him sharply on the cheek with his open hand, "try better than that." Again the Galician struck heavily with his huge fists, and again French, easily parrying, tapped him once, twice, thrice, where he would, drawing tears to the man's eyes.

The Galician paused with a scornful exclamation.
"He says that's nothing," interpreted Kalman.

"You can't hurt a man that way." "Can't, eh?
Tell him to come on, but to look out." Again the Galician came forward, evidently determined to land one blow at least.

But French, taking the blow on his guard, replied with a heavy left-hander fair on the Galician's chest, lifted him clear off his feet and hurled him breathless against his load of hay.