Scenes like this were so frequent in his life that he fairly delighted in them, just as another boy less pugilistic in his nature might glory in taking snap-shot pictures, catching fish, or camping in the woods.

Fighting and Nick Lang were synonymous terms, it might almost be said.
Sweeping the threatening hand of Owen aside almost contemptuously, Nick suddenly sent in another swift jolt, such as he knew so well how to deliver, having taken a few lessons from some reformed prize fighter.
Poor Owen went down again in a pitiful heap.

He did not have the slightest chance against such a master in the art of delivering heavy blows that could not be parried.

As one of the boys who looked on with staring eyes, too much afraid of the bully to interfere, was heard to say, it was "like taking candy from the baby for Nick to strike that boy, unacquainted with the art of self-defense." This time the boy was really unable to do more than struggle to his knees.

There he knelt trying to recover his breath, and not yet wholly conquered, though unable to make any further threatening gestures toward his cruel oppressor.
Hugh had already started to quietly remove both his overcoat and the under one.