There was nothing else in the world but that face, and he would never know rest, blessed rest, until he had beaten that face into a pulp with his bleeding knuckles, or until the bleeding knuckles that somehow belonged to that face had beaten him into a pulp.
And then, one way or the other, he would have rest.

But to quit,--for him, Martin, to quit,--that was impossible! Came the day when he dragged himself into the Enquirer alley, and there was no Cheese-Face.

Nor did Cheese-Face come.

The boys congratulated him, and told him that he had licked Cheese-Face.

But Martin was not satisfied.